
Class.XI\2'54t- 



/ 






CHAE .ISTICS 



BOOKS IN BLUE AND GOLD. 

Public y 

TICK NOR FIELDS. 



LONGFELLOW'S P 

LONGFELLOW 

TENNYSON'S I 

WHITTIER'S P 

LEIGH HUNT'S 

GERALD MASSx 
WORKS. 

MRS. JAMESON'S C 
OF WOMh 

MRS. JAMESON'S 
POETS. 



WORKS. 

AL WORKS. 

WORKS. 

WORKS. 

L WORKS. 

^lTICAL 

CTERISTICS 
OF THE 



MRS. JAMESON'S DIARY OF AN EN- 

NUYEE. 

MRS. JAMESON'S SKETCHES OF ART. 



PREFACE 

TO THE NEW EDITION. 

In preparing for the press a new edition of tliis little work, the 
author h;'S endeavored to render it more worthy of the approba- 
tion and kindly lading with which it has been received; she can- 
not better express her sense of both than by jiistifying, as far aS 
it is in her po\v-er, the cordial and flattering tone of all the public 
criticisms. It is to the great name of Shakspeabe, that bond 
of sympathy among all who speak his language, and to the sub- 
ject of the work, n.^t to ita own merits, that she attributes the 
success it ha? met with, — success the more delightful, because, 
in truth, it was from fie very first, so entirely unlooked for, as to 
be a matter of surprise rs well as of pleasure and gratitude. 

In this edition there are many corrections, and some additions 
which the author hopes maj- be deemed improvements. She has 
been induced to insert several quotations at length, which were 
formerly only referred to, from observing that however familiar 
they may be %o the mind of the reader, they are always recog- 
nized with pleasure — like dear domestic faces; and if the memory 
fail at the moment to recall the lines or the sentiment to which 
the attention is directly required, few Uke to interrupt the course 
of thought, or undertake a journey from the sofa or garden-seat 
to the library, to hunt out the volume, the play, the passage, for 
themselveg. 

When the first edition was sent to press, the author contem- 
plated writing the life of Mrs. Siddons, with a reference to her 
art ; and defi?rred the complete development of the character of 
Lady Macbeth, till she should be able to illustrate it by the im- 
personation and commentary of that grand and gifted actress ; but 
the task having fallen into other hands, the analysis of the charr 
acter has been almost entirely rewritten, as at first conceived, or 
rather restoi-ed to its original form. 

This little work, as it now stands, forms only part of a plan 
which the author hopes, if life be granted her, to accompUsh ; — 
at aU events, lifc, while it is spared, shall be devoted to its ful- 
filment. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
Introduction - 9 

characters op inteijlect. 

^1p ortia j: v*^ 63 

Isabella 83 

Beatrice 99 

Rosalind' 110 

CHARACTERS OP PASSION AND DUQINATION. 

Juliet. 119 

Helena 153 

Perdita 172 

Viola 181 

Ophelia'. 187 

Miranda 207 

4 

CHARACTERS OP THE AFPECTIONS. 

Hermione 219 

Desdemona 240 

Imogen 259 

Cordelia. . ^.,. 280 

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Cleopatra 302 

Octavia 341 

Volumnia 345 

4r Constance of Bretagne rrrT. 357 

T Elinor of Guienne rrT 387 

Blanche of Castile 389 

^Margaret of Anjon 396 

j<" Katlierine of Arragon 407 

Lady Macbeth 437 



CHABACTERISTICS OF WOMEN. 

INTRODUCTION. 
Scene — A Library, 

ALDA. 

You will not listen to me ? 



I do, with all the deference which befits a gen- 
tleman when a lady holds forth on the virtues of 
her own sex. 

He is a parricide of his mother's name, 

And with an impious hand murders her fame, 

That wi'ongs the praise of women ; that dares write 

Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite 

The milk they lent us. 

Yours was the nobler birth. 
For you from man were made — man but of earth — 
The son of dust ! 

ALDA. 

What's this ? 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

MEDON. 

" Only a rhyme I learned from one I talked 
withal ; " 'tis a quotation from some old poet that 
has fixed itself in my memory — ^from Randolph, I 
think. 

ALDA. 

TIs very justly thought, and very politely quoted, 
and my best courtesy is due to him and to you : — 
but now will you listen to me ? 

MEDON. 

With most profound humility. 

ALDA. 

Nay, then! I have done, unless you will lay 
aside these mock airs of gallantry, and hsten to 
me for a moment ! Is it fair to bring a second- 
hand accusation against me, and not attend to my 
defence ? 

MEDON. 

Well, I will be serious. 

ALDA. 

Do so, and let us talk like reasonable beings. 

MEDON. 

Then tell me, (as a reasonable woman you will 
not be affronted with the question,) do you really 
expect that any one will read this little book of 
yours ? 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

ALDA. 

I might answer, tliat it has been a great source 
of amusement and interest to me for several months, 
and that so far I am content : but no one writes a 
book without a hope of finding readers, and I shall 
find a few. Accident first made me an authoress ; 
and not now, nor ever, have I written to flatter 
any prevailing fashion of the day for the sake of 
profit, though this is done, I know, by many who 
have less excuse for thus coining their brains. 
This little book was undertaken without a thought 
of fame or money : out of the fulness of my own 
heart and soul have I written it. In the pleasure 
it has given me, in the new and various views of 
human nature it has opened to me, in the beautiful 
and soothing images it has placed before me, in the 
exercise and improvement of my own faculties, I 
have already been repaid : if praise or profit come 
beside, they come as a surplus. I should be grati- 
fied and grateful, but I have not sought for them, 
nor worked for them. Do you beheve this ? 



I do : in this I cannot suspect you of afiectation, 
for the profession of disinterestedness is uncalled 
for, and the contrary would be too far counte- 
nanced by the custom of the day to be matter of 
reserve or reproach. But how could you (saving 
the reverence due to a lady-authoress, and speak- 
ing as one reasonable being to another) choose 
such a threadbare subject ? 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

ALDA. 

What do you mean ? 



I presume you have written a book to maintain 
the superiority of your sex over ours ; for so I 
judge by the names at the heads of some of your 
chapters ; women fit indeed to inlay heaven with 
stars, but, pardon me, very unhke those who at 
present walk upon this earth. 

ALDA. 

Very unlike the fine ladies of your acquaintance, 
I grant you ; but as to maintaining the superiority, 
or speculating on the rights of women — nonsense ! 
why should you suspect me of such folly ? — it is 
quite out of date. Why should there be compe- 
tition or comparison ? 



Both are ill-judged and odious ; but did you ever 
meet with a woman of the world, who did not 
abuse most heartDy the whole race of men ? 

ALDA. 

Did you ever talk with a man of the world, who 
did not speak with levity or contempt of the whole 
human race of women ? 

MEDON. 

Perhaps I might answer like Voltaire — " Helas I 



INTEODUCTION. 13 

lis pourraient blen avoir raison tous deux." But 
do you thence infer that both ai'e good for noth- 
ing? 

ALDA. 

Thence I infer that the men of the world and 
the women of the world are neither of them — 
good for much. 

MEDON. 

And you have written a book to make them 
better ? 

ALDA. 

Heaven forbid ! else I were only fit for the next 
lunatic asylum. Vanity run mad never conceived 
such an impossible idea. 

MEDON. 

Then, in a few words, what is the subject, and 
what the object, of your book ? 

ALDA. 

I have endeavoured to illustrate the various 
modifications of which the female character is sus- 
ceptible, with their causes and results. My life 
has been spent in observing and thinking ; I have 
had, as you well know, more opportunities for the 
first, more leisure for the last, than have fallen to 
the lot of most people. What I have seen, felt, 
thought, sufiered, has led me to form certain 
opinions. It appeal's to me that the condition of 
women in society, as at present constituted, is false 
in itself, and injurious to them, — that the education 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

of women, as at present conducted, is founded in 
mistaken principles, and tends to increase fear- 
fully the sum of misery and error in both sexes ; 
but I do not choose presumptuously to fling these 
opinions in the face of the world, in the form of 
essays on morality, and treatises on education. I 
have rather chosen to illustrate certain positions 
by examples, and leave my readers to deduce the 
moral themselves, and draw their own inferences. 



And why have you not chosen your examples 
from real life? you might easily have done so. 
You have not been a mere spectator, or a mere 
actor, but a lounger behind the scenes of exist- 
ence — have even assisted in preparing the puppets 
for the stage : you might have given us an epitome 
of your experience, instead of dreaming over Shak- 
speare. 

ALDA. 

I might so, if I had chosen to become a female 
satirist, which I will never be. 



being read. 

ALDA. 

I am not sure of that. The vile taste for satire 
and personal gossip will not be eradicated, I sup- 
pose, while the elements of curiosity and malice 
remain in human nature ; but as a fashion of liter- 



INTRODUCTIOX. 15 

ature, I tlilnk it is passing away ; — at all events it 
is not my forte. Long experience of what is called 
"the world," of the folly, duplicity, shallowness, 
selfishness, which meet us at every turn, too soon 
unsettles our youthful creed. If it only led to the 
knowledge of good and evil, it were well; if it 
only taught us to despise the illusions and retire 
from the pleasures of the world, it would be better. 
But it destroys our belief — it dims our perception 
of all abstract truth, vii'tue, and happiness ; it turns 
life into a jest, and a very dull one too. It makes 
us indifferent to beauty, and incredulous of good- 
ness ; it teaches us to consider self as the centre on 
which all actions turn, and to which all motives are 
to be referred. 

MED ON. 

But this being so, we must either revolve with 
these earthly natures, and round the same centre, 
or seek a sphere for ourselves, and dwell apart 

ALDA. 

I trust it Is not necessary to do either. While 
we are yet young, and the passions, powers, and 
feelings, in their full activity, create to us a world 
within, we cannot look fairly on the world with- 
out: — all things then are good. When first we 
throw ourselves forth, and meet burs and briars on 
every side, which stick in our very hearts ; — and 
fair tempting fruits which turn to bitter ashes in 
the taste, then we exclaim with impatience, all 
things are evil. But at length comes the calm 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

hour, when they who look beyond the superficies 
of things begin to discern their true bearings; 
when the perception of evil, or sorrow, or sin, 
brings also the perception of some opposite good, 
which awakens our indulgence, or the knowl- 
edge of the cause wliich excites our pity. Thus 
it is with me. I can smile, — nay, I can laugh 
still, to see folly, vanity, absurdity, meanness, ex- 
posed by scornful wit, and depicted by othei*s in 
fictions light and brilliant. But these very things, 
when I encounter the reality, rather make me sad 
than merry, and take away all the incHnation, if I 
had the power, to hold them up to derision. 



Unless, by doing so, you might correct them. 

ALDA. 

Correct them 1 Show me that one human being 
who has been made essentially better by satire ! O 
no, no ! there is something in human nature which 
hardens itself against the lash — something in satiro 
which excites only the lowest and worst of our 
propensities. That avowal in Pope — 

I must be proud to see 
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me ! 

— ^has ever filled me with terror and pity — 

MEDON. 

From its truth perhaps ? 



INTRODUCTION. 17 

ALDA. 

From its arrogance, — ^for the truth is, that a vice 
never corrected a vice. Pope might be proud of 
the terror he inspired in those who feared no God ; 
in whom vanity was stronger than conscience : but 
that terror made no individual man better; and 
while he indulged his own besetting sin, he admin- 
istered to the mahgnity of others. Your professed 
satirists always send me to think upon the opposite 
sentiment in Shakspeare, on " the mischievous foul 
sin of chiding sin." I remember once hearing a 
poem of Barry Cornwall's, (he read it to me,) 
about a strange winged creature that, having the 
lineaments of a man, yet preyed on a man, and 
afterwards coming to a stream to drink, and be- 
holding his own face therein, and that he had 
made his prey of a creature hke himself, pined 
away with repentance. So should those do, who 
Laving made themselves mischievous mirth out of 
the sins and sorrows of others, remembering their 
own humanity, and seeing within themselves the 
same Hueaments — so should they grieve and pine 
away, self-jiunished. 

MEDON. 

'Tis an old allegory, and a sad one — and but too 
much to the purpose. 

AI.DA. 

I abhor the spirit of ridicule — I dread it and I 
despise it I abhor it because it is in direct con- 



18 INTRODUCTION. 

tradiction to the mild and serious spirit of Chris- 
tianity ; I fear it, because we find that in every 
state of society in which it has prevailed as a 
fashion, and has given the tone to the manners 
and literature, it marked the moral degradation 
and approaching destruction of that society ; and I 
despise it, because it is the usual resource of the • 
shallow and the base mind, and, when wielded by 
the strongest hand with the purest intentions, an 
inefficient means of good. The spirit of satire 
reversing the spirit of mercy which is twice blessed, 
seems to me twice accursed; — evil in those who 
indulge it — evil to those who are the objects of it. 

MEDON. 

"Peut-etre fallait-il que la punition des im- 
prudens et des faibles fut confiee k la malignite, 
car la pure vertu n'eiit jamais ete assez cruelle." 

ALDA. 

That is a woman's sentiment. 

MEDON. 

True — it was ; and I have pleasure in remind- 
ing you that a female satirist by profession is yet 
an anomaly in the history of our literature, as a 
female schismatic is yet unknown in the history of 
our rehgion. But to what do you attribute the 
number of satirical women we meet in society ? 

ALDA. 

Not to our nature ; but to a state of society in 



INTRODUCTION. 19 

whlcli the levelling spirit of persiflage has been 
long a fashion ; to the perverse education which 
fosters it; to affections disappointed or unem- 
ployed, which embitter the temper ; to faculties 
misdirected or wasted, which oppress and irritate 
the mind ; to an utter ignorance of ourselves, and 
the common lot of humanity, combined with quick 
and refined perceptions and much superficial cul- 
tivation ; to frivolous habits, which make serious 
thought a burden, and serious feeling a bane if 
suppressed, if betrayed, a ridicule. Women, gen- 
erally speaking, are by nature too much subjected 
to suffering in many forms — ^have too much of 
fancy and sensibility, and too much of that faculty 
which some philosophers call veneration^ to be 
naturally satirical. I have known but one woman 
eminently gifted in mind and person, who is also 
distinguished for powers of satire as bold as merci- 
less ; and she is such a compound of all that nature 
can give of good, and all that society can teach of 
evil — 

MEDOSr. 

That she reminds us of the dragon of old, which 
was generated between the sunbeams from heaven 
and the sHme of earth. 

ALDA. 

No such thing. Rather of the powerful and 
beautiful fairy Melusina, who had every talent and 
every charm under heaven ; but once in so many 
hours was fated to become a serpent No, I return 



20 INTRODUCTION. 

to my first position. It is not by exposing folly and 
scornino; fools, that we make other people wiser, 
or ourselves happier. But to soften the heart by 
images and examples of the kindly and generous 
aifeetions — to show how the human soul is dis- 
ciplined and perfected by suffering — to prove how 
much of possible good may exist in things evil and 
perverted — how much hope there is for those who 
despair — how much comfort for those whom a 
heartless world has taught to contemn both others 
and themselves, and so put barriers to the hard, 
cold, selfish, mocking, and levelling spirit of the day 
O would I could do this I 



On the same principle, I suppose, that they have 
changed the treatment of lunatics ; and whereas 
they used to condemn poor distempered wretches 
to straw and darkness, stripes and a strait waist- 
coat, they now send them to sunshine and green 
fields, to wander in gardens among birds and 
flowers, and soothe them with soft music and kind 
flattering speech. 

AT.DA. 

You laugh at me ! perhaps I deserve it. 

MEDOX. 

No, in truth; I am a little amused, but most 
honestly attentive : and perhaps wish I could think 
more like you. But to proceed : I allow that with 



INTRODUCTION. 21 

this view of the case, you could not well have 
chosen your illustrations from real life ; but why 
not from history ? 

ALDA. 

As far as history could guide me, I have taken 
her with me in one or two recent publications, 
which all tend to the same object. Nor have I 
here lost sight of her ; but I have entered on a land 
where she alone is not to be trusted, and may make- 
a pleasant companion but a most fallacious guide. 
To drop metaphor: history informs us that such 
things have been done or have occurred ; but when 
we come to inquire into motives and characters, it 
is the most false and partial and unsatisfactory 
authority we can refer to. "Women are illustrious 
in history, not from what they have been in them- 
selves, but generally in proportion to the mischief 
they have done or caused. Those characters best 
fitted to my purpose are precisely those of which 
history never heard, or disdains to speak ; of those 
which have been handed down to us by many dif- 
ferent authorities under different aspects we cannot 
judge without prejudice; in others there occur 
certain cliasms which it is difficult to supply ; and 
hence inconsistencies we have no means of recon- 
ciling, though doubtless they might be reconciled 
if we knew the whole, instead of a part. 

MEDON. 

But instance — instance ! 



22 INTRODUCTION. 

ALDA. 

Examples crowd upon me; but take the first 
that occurs. Do you remember that Duchesse de 
Longueville, whose beautiful picture we were look- 
ing at yesterday ? — the heroine of the Fronde ? — • 
think of that woman — bold, intriguing, profligate, 
vain, ambitious, factious ! — who made men rebels 
with a smile ; — or if that were not enough, the lady 
was not scrupulous, apparently without principle 
as without shame, nothing was too much ! And 
then think of the same woman protecting the vir- 
tuous philosopher Arnauld, when he was denounced 
and condemned ; and from motives which her worst 
enemies could not malign, secreting him in her 
house, unknown even to her own servants — pre- 
paring his food herself, watching for his safety, and 
at length saving him. Her tenderness, her pa- 
tience, her discretion, her disinterested benevolence, 
-not only defied danger, (that were httle to a woman 
of her temper,) but endured a lengthened trial, all 
the ennui caused by the necessity of keeping her 
house, continual self-control, and the thousand small 
daily sacrifices which, to a vain, dissipated, proud, 
impatient woman, must have been hard to bear. 
Now if Shakspeare had drawn the character of the 
Duchesse de Longueville, he would have shown us 
the same individual woman in both situations : — ^for 
the same being, with the same faculties, and pas- 
sions, and powers, it surely was : whereas in his- 
tory, we see in one case a fury of discord, a woman 
without modesty or pity ; and in the other an angel 



INTRODUCTION. 23 

of benevolence, and a worshipper of goodness ; and 
nothing to connect the two extremes in our fancy. 

MEDON. 

But these are contradictions which we meet on 
every page of history, which make us giddy with 
doubt, or sick with belief, and are the proper sub- 
jects of inquiry for the moraUst and the philosopher. 



I cannot say that professed moralists and philos- 
ophers did much to help me out of the dilemma ; 
but the riddle wliich history presented I found 
solved in the pages of Shakspeare. There the 
crooked appeared straight ; the inaccessible, easy ; 
the incomprehensible, plain. All I sought, I found 
there ; his characters combine history and real life ; 
they are complete individuals, whose hearts and 
souls are laid open before us : all may behold, and 
all judge for themselves. 

MEDON. 

But aU will not judge alike 

ALDA. 

No; and herein lies a part of their wonderful 
truth. We hear Shakspeare's men and women dis- 
cussed, praised and dispraised, liked, disliked, as 
real human beings ; and in forming our opinions of 
them, we are influenced by our own characters, 
habits of thought, prejudices, feelings, impulses, just 



24 INTRODUCTION. 

as we are influenced with regard to our acquaint- 
ances and associates. 

MEDON. 

But we are then as likely to misconceive and 
misjudge them. 

ALDA. 

Yes, if we had only the same imperfect means of 
studying them. But we can do mth them what we 
cannot do with real people: we can unfold the 
whole character before us, stripped of all preten- 
sions of self-love, all disguises of manner. We can 
take leisure to examine, to analyze, to correct our 
own impressions, to watch the rise and progress of 
various passions — we can hate, love, approve, con- 
demn, without oflfence to others, without pain to 
ourselves. 

MEDON. 

In this respect they may be compared to those 
exquisite anatomical preparations of wax, which 
those who could not without disgust and horror dis- 
sect a real specimen, may study, and learn the 
mysteries of our frame, and all the internal work- 
ings of the wondrous machine of life. 

ALDA. 

And it is the safer and the better way — for us at 
least. But look — that brilliant rain-drop trembling 
there in the sunshine suggests to me another illus- 
tration. Passion, when we contemplate it through 



INTRODUCTION. 25 

the medium of imagination, is like a ray of light 
transmitted through a prism ; -we can calmly, 
and with undazzled eye, study its complicate na- 
ture, and analyze its variety of tints ; but passion 
brought home to us in its reality, through our own 
feelings and experience, is like the same ray trans- 
mitted through a lens, — ^blinding, burning,' consum- 
ing where it falls. 

MEDON. 

Your illustration is the most poetical, I allow ; 
but not the most just. But tell me, is the ground 
you have taken sufficiently large ? — is the founda- 
tion you have chosen strong enough to bear the 
moral superstructure you raise upon it ? You know 
the prevalent idea is, that Shakspeare's women are 
inferior to his men. This assertion is constantly 
repeated, and has been but tamely refuted. 

ALDA. 

Professor Richardson V — 

MEDOK. 

He is as dry as a stick, and his refutation not 
successful even as a piece of logic. Then it is not 
sufficient for critics to assert this inferiority and 
want of variety : they first assume the fallacy, then 
argue upon it. Gibber accounts for it from the 
circumstance that all the female parts in Shak- 
speare's time were acted by boys — there were no 
women on the stage ; and Mackenzie, who ought 
to have known better, says that he was not so happy 



26 INTRODUCTION. 

in his delineations of love and tenderness, as of the 
other passions; because, forsooth, the majesty of 
his genius could not stoop to the refinements of del- 
icacy ; — ^preposterous ! 



Stay ! before we waste epithets of indignation, 
let us consider. If these people mean that Shak- 
speare's women are inferior in power to his men, I 
grant it at once ; for in Shakspeare the male and 
female characters bear precisely the same relation 
to each other that they do in nature and in society 
— they are not equal in prominence or in power — 
they are subordinate throughout. Richardson re- 
marks, that "if situation influences the mind, and 
if uniformity of conduct be frequently occasioned 
by uniformity of condition, there must be a greater 
diversity of male than of female characters," — 
which is true ; add to this our limited sphere of 
action, consequently of experience, — the habits of 
self-control rendering the outward distinctions of 
character and passion less striking and less strong 
— all this we see in Shakspeare as in nature : for 
instance, Juhet is the most impassioned of the 
female characters, but what are her passions com- 
pared to those which shake the soul of Othello ? 

" Even as the dew-drop on the myrtle-leaf 
To the vex'd sea." 

Look at Constance, frantic for the loss of her son — 
then look at Lear, maddened by the ingratitude of 



INTRODUCTION. 27 

his daughters: why it is the west wind bowing 
those aspen tops that wave before our window, 
compared to the tropic hurricane, when forests 
crash and burn, and mountains tremble to their 
bases ! 

MEDON. 

True ; and Lady Macbeth, with all her soaring 
ambition, her vigor of intellect, her subtlety, her 
courage, and her cruelty — what is she, compared to 
Kichard HI. ? 

ALDA. 

I will tell you what she is — she is a woman. 
Place Lady Macbeth in comparison with Richard 
in., and you see at once the essential distinction 
between masculine and feminine ambition — though 
both in extreme, and overleaping all restraints of 
conscience or mercy. Richard says of himself, that 
he has " neither pity, love, nor fear : " Lady Mac- 
beth is susceptible of all three. You smile ! but 
that remains to be proved. The reason that Shak- 
speare's wicked women have such a singular hold 
upon our fancy, is from the consistent preservation 
of the feminine character, which renders them more 
terrible, because more credible and inteUigible — 
not like those monstrous caricatures we meet with 
in history — 

MEDON. 

In history ? — this is new ! 



Yes ! I repeat, in history, where certain isolated 



28 INTRODUCTION. 

facts aud actions are recorded, witliout any rela- 
tion to causes, or motives, or connecting feelings ; 
and pictures exhibited, from which the considerate 
mind turns in disgust, and the feeling heart has no 
reUef but in positive, and I may add, reasonable 
incredulity. I have lately seen one of Correggio's 
finest pictures, in wliich the three Furies are repre- 
sented, not as ghastly deformed hags, with talons 
and torches, and snaky hair, but as young women, 
with fine luxuriant forms and regular features, and 
a single serpent wreathing the tresses hke a ban- 
deau — ^but such countenances ! — such a hideous ex- 
pression of malice, cunning, and cruelty ! — and the 
effect is beyond conception appalling. Leonardo 
da Vinci worked upon the same grand principle of 
art in his Medusa — 

Where it is less the horror than the grace 
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone — 

***** 
'Tis the melodious tints of beauty thrown 
Athwart the hue of guilt and glare of pain, 
That humanize and harmonize the strain. 

And Shakspeare, who understood all truth, worked 
out his conceptions on the same principle, having 
said himself, that " proper deformity shows not in 
the fiend so horrid as in women." Hence it is that 
whether he portrayed the wickedness founded in 
perverted power, as in Lady Macbeth ; or the 
wickedness founded in weakness, as in Gertrude, 
Lady Anne, or Cressida, he is the more fearfully 



INTRODUCTION. 29 

impressive, because we cannot claim for ourselves 
an exemption from the same nature, before which, 
in its corrupted state, we tremble with horror or 
shrink with disgust. 

MEDON. 

Do you remember that some of the commentators 
of Shakspeare have thought it incumbent on their 
gallantry to express their utter contempt for the 
scene between Richard and Lady Anne, as a mon- 
strous and incredible libel on your sex ? 

ALDA. 

They might have spared themselves the trouble. 
Lady Anne is just one of those women whom we 
see walking in crowds through the drawing-rooms 
of the world — the puppets of habit, the fools of for- 
tune, without any particular inclination for vice, or 
any steady principle of virtue ; whose actions are 
inspired by vanity, not affection, and regulated by 
opinion, not by conscience: who are good whUe 
there is no temptation to be otherwise, and ready 
victims of the first soliciting to evil. In the case of 
Latly Anne, we are startled by the situation : not 
three months a widow, and following to the sep- 
ulchre the remains of a husband and a father, she 
.is met and wooed and won by the very man who 
murdered them. In such a case it required perhaps 
cither Richard or the arch-fiend himself to tempt 
her successfully ; but in a less critical moment, a 
far less subtle and audacious seducer would have 



30 INTRODUCTION. 

sufficed. Cressida is another modification of vanity, 
weakness, and falsehood, drawn in stronger colors. 
The world contains many Lady Annes and Cres- 
sidas, polished and refined externally, whom chance 
and vanity keep right, whom chance and vanity 
lead wrong, just as it may happen. When we read 
in history of the enormities of certain women, per- 
fect scarecrows and ogresses, we can safely, like the 
Pharisee in Scripture, hug ourselves in our secure 
virtue, and thank God that we are not as others 
are — but the wicked women in Shakspeare are 
portrayed with such perfect consistency and truth, 
that they leave us no such resource — they frighten 
us into reflection — they make us believe and 
tremble. On the other hand, his amiable women 
are touched with such exquisite simphcity — they 
have so little external pretensions — and are so un- 
like the usual heroines of tragedy and romance, 
that they delight us more " than all the nonsense 
of the beau-ideal ! " We are flattered by the per- 
ception of our own nature in the midst of so many 
charms and virtues: not only are they what we 
could wish to be, or ought to be, but what we per- 
suade ourselves we might be, or would be, under a 
different and a happier state of things, and, per- 
haps, some time or other may be. They are not 
stuck up, like the cardinal virtues, all in a row, for 
us to admire and wonder at — they are not mere 
poetical abstractions — nor (as they have been 
termed) mere abstractions of the affections, — 
But common clay ta'en from the common earth, 



INTEODUCTION. 31 

Moulded by God, and tempered by the tears 
Of angels, to the perfect form of— woman. 

MEDON. 

Beautiful lines ! — Where are they ? 

ALDA. 

I quote from memory, and I am afraid inaccu- 
rately, from a poem of Alfred Tennyson's. 

MEDON. 

Well, between argument, and sentiment, and 
logic, and poetry, you are making out a very 
plausible case. I think with you that, in the in- 
stances you have mentioned, (as Lady Macbeth 
and Richard, Juliet, and Othello, and others,) the 
want of comparative power is only an additional 
excellence ; but to go to an opposite extreme of 
delineation, we must allow that there is not one of 
Shakspeare's women that, as a dramatic character, 
can be compared to Falstaff.^ 

ALDA. 

No ; because any thing like Falstaff in the form 
of woman — any such compound of wit, sensuality, 
and selfishness, unchecked by the moral senti- 
ments and the affections, and touched with the 
same vigorous painting, would be a gross and 
monstrous caricature. If it coidd exist in nature, 
we might find it in Shakspeare ; but a moment's 
reflection shows us that it would be essentially an 
impossible combination of faculties in a female. 



32 INTRODUCTION. 



It strikes me, however, that his humorous women 
are feebly drawn, in comparison with some of the 
female wits of other writers. 

ALDA. 

Because his women of wit and humor are not 
introduced for the sole purpose of saying brilliant 
things, and displaying the wit of the author ; they 
are, as I will show you, real, natural women, in 
whom wit is only a particular and occasional modi- 
fication of intellect. They are all, in the first 
place, affectionate, thinking beings, and moral 
agents; and then witty, as if by accident, or as 
the Duchesse de Chaulnes said of herself, " par la 
grace de Dieu." As to humor, it is carried as far 
as possible in Mrs. Quickly; in the termagant 
Catherine; in Maria, in "Twelfth Night;" in 
Juliet's nurse ; in Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page. What 
can exceed in humorous naivete, Mrs. Quickly's 
upbraiding Falstaif, and her concluding appeal — 
" Didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee 
thirty shillings ? " Is it not exquisite — irresistible ? 
Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page are both " merry wives," 
but how perfectly discriminated ! Mrs. Ford has 
the most good nature— Mrs. Page is the cleverer 
of the two, and has more sharpness in her tongue, 
more mischief in her mirth. In all these instances 
I allow that the humor is more or less vulgar ; but 
a humorous woman, whether in high or low life, 
has always a tinge of vulgarity. 



IXTRODUCTIOX. 33 



I should like to sec that word vulgar properly 
defined, and its meaning limited — at present it is 
the most arbitrary word in the language. 



Yes, like the word romantic, it is a convenient 
" exploding word," and in its general application 
signifies nothing more than " see how much finer I 
am than other people ! " * but in literature and 
character I shall adhere to the definition of Ma- 
dame de Stael, who uses the word vulgar as the 
reverse oi poetical. Vulgarity (as I wish to apply 
the word) is the negative in aU things. In litera- 
ture, it is the total absence of elevation and depth 
in the ideas, and of elegance and delicacy in the 
expression of them. In character, it is the absence 
of truth, sensibility, and reflection. The vulgar in 
manner, is the result of vulgarity of character ; it 
is grossness, hardness, or affectation. — If you would 
see how Shakspeare has discriminated, not only 
different degrees, but different kinds of plebeian 
vulgarity in women, you have only to compare the 
nurse in Romeo and Juliet with Mrs. Quickly. 
On the whole, if there are people who, taking the 
strong and essential distinction of sex into con- 
sideration, still maintain that Shakspeare's female 
characters are not, in truth, in variety, in power, 



* See Foster's E3say on the application of the word romantic. 
— Essays, vol. i. 



34 INTRODUCTION. 

equal to Lis men, I think I shall prove the con- 
trary. 

MEDON. 

I observe that you have divided your illustra- 
tions into classes ; but shades of character so melt 
into each ■other, and the various faculties and 
powers are so blended and balanced, that all class- 
ification must be arbitrary. I am at a loss to con- 
ceive where you have drawn the line ; here, at the 
head of your first chapter, I find '• Characters of 
Intellect" — do you call Portia intellectual, and 
Ilermione and Constance not so ? 

ALDA. 

I know that Sehlegel has said that it is impossible 
to arrange Shakspearc's characters in classes : yet 
some classification was necessary for my purpose. 
I have therefore divided them into characters in 
which intellect and wit predominate; characters 
in which fancy and passion predominate; and 
characters in which the moral sentiments and 
affections predominate. The historical characters 
I have considered apart, as requiring a different 
mode of illustration. Portia I regard as a perfect 
model of an intellectual woman, in whom wit is 
tempered by sensibility, and fancy regulated by 
strong reflection. It is obj ected to her, to Bear 
trice, and others of Shakspearc's women, that the 
display of intellect is tinged with a coarseness of 
manner belonging to the age in which he wrote. 
To remark that the conversation and letters of 



INTRODUCTION. 35 

highbred and virtuous women of that time were 
more bold and frank in expression than any part 
of the dialogue appropriated to Beatrice and Rosa- 
lind, may excuse it to our judgment, but does not 
reconcile it to our taste. Much has been said, and 
more might be said on this subject — but I would 
rather not discuss it. It is a mere difference of 
manner which is to be regretted, but has nothing 
to do with the essence of the character. 

MEDON. 

I tliink you have done well in avoiding the topic 
altogether ; but between ourselves, do you really 
think that the refinement of manner, the cen- 
sorious, hypocritical, verbal scrupulosity, which is 
carried so far in this " picked age " of ours, is a 
true sign of superior refinement of taste, and 
purity of morals ? Is it not rather a whiting of 
the sepulchre ? I will not even allude to indi- 
vidual instances whom we both know, but does it 
not remind you, on the whole, of the tone of 
French manners previous to the revolution — that 
" d^cence," which Horace Walpole so admired,* 
veiling the moral degradation, the inconceivable 
profligacy of the higher classes? — Stay — I have 
not yet done — not to you, but /or you, I will add 
thus much ; — our modern idea of delicacy appar- 
ently attaches more importance to words than to 
things — to manners than to morals. You will hear 

* Correspondence, vol. iii. 



36 INTRODUCTION. 

people Invelgli against the improprieties of Shak- 
speare, with Don Juan, or one of those infernal 
French novels — I beg your pardon — lying on their 
toilet table. Lady Florence is shocked at the sal- 
lies of Beatrice, and Beatrice would certainly stand 
aghast to see Lady Florence dressed for Almack's ; 
so you see that in both cases the fashion makes 
the Indecorum. Let her ladyship new model her 
gowns ! 

ALDA. 

Well, well, leave Lady Florence — 1 would rather 
hear you defend Shakspeare. 



I think it is Coleridge who so finely observes 
that Shakspeare ever kept the high road of human 
life, whereon all travel, that he did not pick out 
by-paths of feeling and sentiment ; in him we have 
no moral highwaymen, and sentimental thieves 
and rat-catchers, and interesting villains, and ami- 
able, elegant adulteresses — h-la-mode Germanorum 
— no delicate entanglements of situation, in which 
the grossest images are presented to the mind 
disguised under the superficial attraction of style 
and sentiment. He flattered no bad passion, dis- 
guised no vice in the garb of virtue, trifled with 
with no just and generous principle. He can 
make us laugh at folly, and shudder at crime, yet 
still preserve our love for our fellow-beings, and 
our reverence for ourselves. He has a lofty and a 
fearless trust in his own powers, and in the beauty 



INTRODUCTION. 37 

and excellence of virtue ; and with his eye fixed 
on the lode-star of truth, steers us triumphantly 
among shoals and quicksands, where with any 
other pilot we had been wrecked : — for instance, 
who but himself would have dared to bring into 
close contact two such characters as lago and 
Desdemona? Had the colors in which he has 
arrayed Desdemona been one atom less transpar- 
ently bright and pure, the charm had been lost ; 
she could not have borne the approximation : 
some shadow fi-om the overpowering blackness 
of Jiis character must have passed over the sun- 
bright purity of hers. For observe that lago's 
disbelief in the virtue of Desdemona is not pre- 
tended, it is real. It arises from his total want of 
faith in all virtue ; he is no more capable of con- 
ceiving goodness than she is capable of conceiv- 
ing evil. To the brutish coarseness and fiendish 
malignity of this man, her gentleness appears only 
a contemptible weakness ; her purity of aflection, 
Avhich saw " Othello's visage in his mind," only a 
perversion of taste ; her bashful modesty, only a 
cloak for evil propensities ; so he represents them 
with all the force of language and self-conviction, 
and we are obhged to Hsten to him. lie rips her 
to pieces before us — he would have bedeviled an 
angel ! yet such is the unrivalled, though passive 
delicacy of the delineation, that it can stand it 
unhurt, untouched ! It is wonderful ! — ^yet natural 
as it is wonderful ! After all, there are people in 
the world, whose opinions and feehngs are tainted 



38 INTRODUCTIOX. 

by an habitual acquaintance with tlie evil side of 
society, though in action and intention they remain 
right; and who, without^ the real depravity of 
heart and malignity of intention of lago, judge as 
he does of the character and productions of others. 



Heaven bless me from such critics ! yet if genius, 
youth, and innocence could not escape unslurred, 
can I hope to do so ? I pity from my soul the 
persons you allude to — ^for to such minds there can 
exist few uncontaminated sources of pleasure, 
either in nature or in art. 

MEDOX. 

Ay — " the perfumes of Paradise were poison to 
the Dives, and made them melancholy."* You 
pity them, and they will sneer at you. But what 
have we here ? — " Characters of Imagination — 
Juliet — Viola;" are these romantic young ladies 
the pillars which are to sustain your moral edifice ? 
Are they to serve as examples or as warnings for 
the youth of this euhghtened age ? 

ALDA. 

As warnings, of course — what else ? 

MEDON. 

Against the dangers of romance? — but where 

* An Oriental proverb. 



IN TKODUCTION. 39 

are they? " Vralment," as B. Constant says, "jo 
ne vois pas qu'en fait d'enthousiasnie, le feu soit h. 
la maison." Where are they — these disciples of 
poetry and romance, these victims of disinterested 
devotion and believing truth, these imblown roses 
— all conscience and tenderness — whom it is so 
necessary to guard against too much confidence in 
others, and too little in themselves — where are 
they? 

ALDA. 

Wandering in the Elysian fields, I presume, 
with the romantic young gentlemen who are too 
generous, too zealous in defence of innocence, too 
enthusiastic in their admiration of virtue, too vio- 
lent in their hatred of vice, too sincere in friend- 
ship, too faithful in love, too active and disinterested 
in the cause of truth — 

MEDOX. 

Very fair ! But seriously, do you think it neces- 
sary to guard young people, in this selfish and cal- 
culating age, against an excess of sentiment and 
imagination ? Do you allow no distinction between 
the romance of exaggerated sentiment, and the 
romance of elevated thought ? Do you bring cold 
water to quench the smouldering ashes of enthu- 
siasm? Methinks it is rather superfluous; and 
that another doctrine is needed to withstand the 
heartless system of expediency which is the favorite 
philosophy of the day. The warning you speak of 
may be gently hinted to the few who are in danger 



40 INTRODUCTION. 

of being misled by an excess of the generous im- 
pulses of fancy and feeling; but need hardly, I 
think, be proclaimed by sound of trumpet amid 
the mocks of the world. No, no ; there are young 
women in these days, but there is no such thing as 
youth — the bloom of existence is sacrificed to a 
fashionable education, and where we should find 
the rose-buds of the spring, we see only the full- 
blown, flaunting, precocious roses of the hot-bed. 

AI^DA. 

Blame then thai foixing system of education, the 
most pernicious, the most mistaken, the most far- 
reaching in its miserable and mischievous effects, 
that ever prevailed in this world. The custom 
which shut up women in convents till they were 
married, and then launched them innocent and 
ignorant on society, was bad enough ; but not worse 
than a system of education which inundates us with 
hard, clever, sophisticated girls, trained by know- 
ing mothers, and all-accomplished governesses, with 
whom vanity and expediency take place of con- 
science and aifection — (in other words, of romance) 
— " frutto senile in sul giovenil fiore ; " with feel- 
ings and passions suppressed or contracted, not 
governed by higher faculties and purer principles ; 
with whom opinion — the same false honor which 
sends men out to fight duels — ^stands instead of the 
strength and the hglit of virtue within their own 
souls. Ilence the strange anomalies of artificial 
society — girls of sixteen who are models of manner, 



I2iTR0DUCT10N. 41 

miracles of prudence, marvels of learning, who 
sneer at sentiment, and laugh at the Juliets and the 
Imogens; and matrons of forty, who, when the 
passions should be tame and wait upon the judg- 
ment, amaze the world and put us to confusion with 
their doings. 

MEDON. 

Or turn politicians to vary the excitement. — 
How I hate political women ! 

AT.DA. 

Why do }'0u hate them ? 



Because they are mischievous. 

ALDA. 

But why are they mischievous ? 



Why ! — why are they mischievous ? Nay, ask 
them, or ask the father of all mischief, who has not 
a more efficient instrument to further his designs in 
this world, than a woman run mad with politics. 
The number of political intriguing women of this 
time, whose boudoirs and drawing-rooms are the 
foyers of party-spirit, is another trait of resemblance 
between the state of society now, and that which 
existed at Paris before the revolution. 



And do you think, hke some interesting young 



42 INTRODUCTION. 

lady in Miss Edgeworth's tales, that " women have 
nothing to do with politics ? " Do you mean to say 
that women are not capable of comprehending the 
principles of legislation, or of feeling an interest in 
the government and welfare of their country, or of 
perceiving and sympathizing in the progress of 
great events ? — That they cannot feel patriotism V 
Beheve me, when we do feel it, our patriotism, like 
our courage and our love, has a purer source than 
with you ; for a man's patriotism has always some 
tinge of egotism, while a woman's patriotism is gen- 
erally a sentiment, and of the noblest kind. 

MEDON. 

I agree in all this ; and all this does not mitigate 
my horror of political women in general, who are, 
I repeat it, both mischievous and absurd. If you 
could but hear the reasoning in these feminine co- 
teries ! ^but you never talk politics. 

ALDA. 

Indeed I do, when I can get any one to listen to 
me ; but I prefer listening. As for the evil you 
complain of, impute it to that imperfect education 
which at once cultivates and enslaves the intellect, 
and loads the memory, while it fetters the judgment. 
Women, however well read in history, never gen- 
eralize in politics ; never argue on any broad or 
general principle ; never reason from a considera- 
tion of past events, their causes and consequences. 
But they are always pohtical through their aflfec-' 



INTRODUCTION. 43 

tions, their prejudices, their personal liaisonft, their 
hopes, tlieir fears. 

WED OK. 

If it were no worse, I could stand it ; for that is 
at least feminine. 

ALDA. 

But most mischievous. For hence it is that we 
make such blind partisans, such violent party wo- 
men, and such wretched politicians. I never heard 
a woman talk politics, as it is termed, that I could 
not discern at once the motive, the affection, the 
secret bias which swayed her opinions and inspired 
her arguments. If it appeared to the Grecian sage 
so " difficult for a man not to love himself, nor tlie 
things that belong to him, but justice only ? " — how 
much more for woman ! 

MEDOX. 

Then you think that a better education, based 
on truer moral principles, would render women 
more reasonable politicians, or at least give them 
some right to meddle with politics '? 

ALDA. 

It would cease in that case to be meddling^ as you 
term it, for it would be legitimized. It is easy to 
sneer at political and mathematical ladies, and quote 
Lord Byron — but O leave those angry common- 
places to others ! — they do not come well from you. 
Do not force me to remind you, that women have 



44 INTRODUCTION. 

achieved enough to silence them forever ; * and 
how often must that truism be repeated, that it is 
not a woman's attainments which make her amiable 
or unamiable, estimable or the contrary, but her 
qualities ? A time is coming, perhaps, when the 
education of women will be considered, with a view 
to their future destination as the mothers and nurses 
of legislators and statesmen, and the cultivation of 
their powers of reflection and moral feehngs super- 
sede the exciting drudgery by which they are now 
crammed with knowledge and accomplishments. 

MEDOK. 

Well — till that blessed period arrives, I wish you 
would leave us the province of politics to ourselves. 
I see here you have treated of a very different 
class of beings, " women in whom the ajfeciions and 
the moral sentiments predominate." Are there many 
such, think you, in the world ? 



Yes, many such ; the development of affection 
and sentiment is more quiet and unobtrusive than 
that of passion and intellect, and less observed ; it 
is more common, too, therefore less remarked ; but 
in women it generally gives the prevaihng tone 
to the character, except where vanity has been 
made the ruling motive. 

* In our own time, Madame do Stael, Mrs. Somerrillc, Ilarriet 
Martineau, Mrs. Marcet ; we need not go back to the Rolands 
and Agnesi, nor even to our own Lucy Ilutchinson. 



INTRODUCTION. 45 

MEDON. 

Except ! I admire your exception ! You make 
in this case the rule the exception. Look round 
the world. 

ALDA. 

You are not one of those with whom that common 
phrase " the world " signifies the circle, whatever 
and wherever that may be, which limits our indi- 
vidual expenence — as a child considers the visible 
horizon as the bounds which shut in the mighty 
universe. Believe me, it is a sorry, vulgar kind of 
wisdom, if it be wisdom — a shallow and confined 
pliilosophy, if it be philosophy — which resolves all 
human motives and impulses into egotism in one 
sex, and vanity in the other. Such may be the 
way of the world, as it is called — the result of a 
very artificial and corrupt state of society, but such 
is not general nature, nor female nature. Would 
you see the kindly, self-sacrificin'g affections de- 
veloped under their most honest but least poetical 
guise — displayed without any mixture of vanity, 
and unchecked in the display by any fear of being 
thought vain ? — you will see it, not among the pros- 
perous, the high-born, the educated, " far, far re- 
moved from want, and grief, and fear," but among 
the poor, the miserable, the perverted — among 
those habitually exposed to all influences that 
harden and deprave. 

MEDON. 

I believe it — nay, 1 know it ; but how should you 



46 INTRODUCTION. 

know it, or anything of tlie strange places of refuge 
which truth and nature have found in the two ex- 
tremes of society ? 

ALDA. 

It is no matter what I have seen or known ; and 
for the two extremes of society, I leave them to the 
author of Paul Cliiford, and that most exquisite 
painter of living manners, Mrs. Gore. St. Giles's 
is no more nature than St. James's. I wanted 
character in its essential truth, not mortified by 
particular customs, by fasliion, by situation. I 
wished to illustrate the manner in which the affec- 
tions would naturally display themselves in women 
— whether combined with high intellect, regulated 
by reflection, and elevated by imagination, or exist- 
ing with perverted dispositions, or purified by the 
moral sentiments. I found all these in Shakspeare ; 
his delineations of WQmen, in whom the virtuous 
and calm affections predominate, and triumph over 
shame, fear, pride, resentment, vanity, jealousy, — ■ 
are particularly worthy of consideration, and per- 
fect in their kind, because so quiet in their effect. 

MEDON. 

Several critics have remarked in general terms 
on those beautiful pictures of female friendship, and 
of the generous affection of women for each other, 
which we find in Shakspeare. Other writers, 
especially dramatic writers, have found ample food 
for wit and satiric delineation in the littleness of 
feminine spite and rivalry, in the mean spirit of 



INTRODUCTION. 47 

competition, the petty jealousy of superior charms, 
the mutual slander and mistrust, the transient 
leagues of folly or selfishness miscalled friendsliip — 
the result of an education wliich makes vanity the 
ruhng principle, and of a false position in society. 
Shakspeare, who looked upon women with the 
spirit of humanity, wisdom, and deep love, has done 
justice to their natural good tendencies and kindly 
sympathies. In the friendship of Beatrice and 
Hero, of Rosalind and Celia ; in the description of 
the girlish attachment of Helena and Hermia, he 
has represented truth and generous affection rising 
superior to all the usual sources of female rivalry 
and jealousy ; and with such force and simphcity, 
and obvious self-conviction, that he absolutely 
forces the same conviction on us. 

ALDA. 

Add to these the generous feeling of Viola for 
her rival Olivia ; of Julia for her rival Sylvia ; of 
Helena for Diana ; of the old Countess for Helena, 
in the same play ; and even the affection of the 
wicked queen in Hamlet for the gentle Ophelia, 
which prove that Shakspeare thought — (and when 
did he ever think other than the truth ?) — that 
women have by nature " virtues that are merciful," 
and can be just, tender, and true to their sister 
women, whatever wits and worldlings, and satirists 
and fashionable poets, may say or sing of us to the 
contrary. There is another thing which he has 
most deeply felt and beautifully represented — tlie 



48 INTRODUCTION. 

distinction between masculine and feminine cour- 
age. A man's courage is often a mere animal 
quality, and in its most elevated form a point of 
honor. But a woman's courage is always a virtue, 
because it is not required of us, it is not one of the 
means through which we seek admiration and ap- 
plause ; on the contrary, we are courageous through 
our affections and mental energies, not through our 
vanity or our strength. A woman's heroism is 
always the excess of sensibility. Do you remember 
Lady Fan sh awe putting on a sailor's jacket, and 
his " blue thrum cap," and standing at her husband's 
side, unknown to him during a sea-fight ? There 
she stood, all bathed in tears, but fixed to that spot. 
Her husband's exclamation when he turned and 
discovered her — " Good God, that love should make 
such a change as this ! " is applicable to all the acts 
of courage which we read or hear of in women. 
This is the courage of Juliet, when, after summing 
up all the possible consequences of her own act, till 
she almost maddens herself with terror, she drinks 
the sleeping potion ; and for that passive fortitude 
which is founded in piety and pure strength of af- 
fection, such as the heroism of Lady Russel and 
Gertrude de Wart, he has given us some of the 
noblest modifications of it in Hermione, in Cordelia, 
in Imogen, in Katherine of Arragon. 



And what do you call the courage of Lady Mac- 
beth ?— 



INTRODUCTION. 49 

My hands are of your color, but 1 shame 
To wear a heart so white. 

And again, 

A little water clears us of this deed, 
How easy is it then ! 

If this is not mere masculine indifference to blood 
and death, mere firmness of nerve, what is it ? 

ALDA. 

Not ihat^ at least, which apparently you deem it ; 
you will find, if you have patience to read me to 
the end, that I have judged Lady Macbeth very 
differently. Take these frightful passages with the 
context — take the whole situation, and you will see 
that it is no such thing. A friend of mine truly 
observed, that if Macbeth had been a rufiian with- 
out any qualms of conscience, Lady Macbeth would 
have been the one to shrink and tremble ; but that 
which quenched him lent her fire. The absolute 
necessity for self-command, the strength of her rea- 
son, and her love for her husband, combine at this 
critical moment to conquer aU fear but the fear of 
detection, leaving her the full possession of her fac- 
ulties. Recollect that the same woman who speaks 
with such horrible indifference of a little water 
clearing the blood-stain from her hand, sees in im- 
agination that hand forever reeking, forever pol- 
luted : and when reason is no longer awake and 
paramount over the violated feelings of nature and 
womanhood, we behold her making unconscious 
4 



50 INTRODUCTION. 

efforts to wash out tUat " damned spot," and slgh- 
inor, heart-broken, over that little hand which all the 
perfumes of Arabia will never sweeten more. 



I hope you have given her a place among the 
women in whom the tender affections and moral 
sentiments predominate. 

ALDA. 

You laugh ; but, jesting apart, perhaps it would 
have been a more accurate classificatiou than plac- 
ing her among the historical characters. 

MEDON. 

Apropos to the historical characters, I hope you 
have refuted that insolent assumption, (shall I call 
itV) that Shakspeare tampered inexcusably with 
the truth of history. He is the truest of all his- 
torians. His anachronisms always remind me of 
those in the fine old Italian pictures ; either they 
are insignificant, or, if properly considered, are 
really beauties ; for instance, every one knows that 
Correggio's St. Jerome presenting his books to the 
Virgin, involves half-a-dozen anachronisms, — to 
say nothing of that heavenly figure of the Mag- 
dalen, in the same picture, kissing the feet of the 
infant Saviour. Some have ridiculed, some have 
excused this strange combination of inaccuracies ; 
but is it less one of the divinest pieces of senti- 
ment and poetry that ever breathed and glowed 



pTRODUCTIOX. 51 

from the canvas ? You remember too the famous 
nativity by some Neapolitan painter, who has 
placed Mount Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples in 
the background ? In these and a hundred other 
instances, no one seems to feel that the apparent 
absurdity involves the highest truth, and that the 
sacred beings thus represented, if once allowed as 
objects of faith and worship, are eternal under 
every aspect, and independent of all time and all 
locahty. So it is with Shakspeare and his ana- 
chronisms. The learned scorn of Johnson and 
some of his brotherhood of commentators, and the 
eloquent defence of Schlegel, seem in this case 
superfluous. If he chose to make the Delphic 
oracle and Julio Romano contemporary — what 
does it signify ? he committed no anachronisms of 
character. He has not metamorphosed Cleopatra 
into a turtle-dove, nor Katherine of Arragon into 
a sentimental heroine. He is true to the spirit 
and even to the letter of history; where he de- 
viates from the latter, the reason may be found in 
some higher beauty and more universal truth. 



I have proved this, I think, by placing parallel 
with the dramatic character all the historic testi- 
mony I could collect relative to Constance, Cleo- 
patra, Katherine of ArAgon, &c. 

MEDON. 

Analyzing the character of Cleopatra must have 



52 INTliODUCTIOX. 

been sometliing like catching a meteor by the tail, 
and making it sit for its picture. 



Something like it, in truth ; but those of Miranda 
and Ophelia were more embarrassing, because they 
seemed to defy all analysis. It was like intercept- 
ing the dew-drop or the snow-flake ere it fell to 
earth, and subjecting it to a chemical process. 



Some one said the other day that Shakspeare 
had never drawn a coquette. What is Cleopatra 
but the empress and type of all the coquettes that 

ever were — or are ? She would put Lady 

herself to school. But now for the moral. 

ALDA. 

The moral!— of what? 



Of your book. It has a moral, I suppose. 

ALDA. 

It has indeed a very deep one, which those who 
seek will find. If now I have answered all your 
considerations and objections, and sufliciently ex- 
plained my own views, may I proceed ? 

MEDON. 

If you please — I am prepared to listen in ear- 
nest. 



CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

PORTIA. 

We hear it asserted, not seldom by way of com- 
pliment to us women, that intellect is of no sex. 
If this mean that the same faculties of mind are 
common to men and women, it is true; in any 
other signification it appears to me false, and the 
reverse of a compliment. The intellect of woman 
bears the same relation to that of man as her 
physical organization ; — it is inferior in power, 
and different in kind. That certain women have 
surpassed certain men in bodily strength or intel- 
lectual energy, does not contradict the general 
principle founded in nature. The essential and 
nivai'iable distinction appears to me this : in men, 
the intellectual faculties exist more self-poised and 
self-directed — more independent of the rest of the 
character, than we ever find them in women, with 
whom talent, however predominant, is in a much 
greater degree modified by the sympathies and 
moral qualities. 

In thinking over all the distinguished women I 



54 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

can at this moment call to mind, I recollect but 
one, who, in the exercise of a rare talent, belied 
her sex, but the moral qualities had been first per- 
verted.* It is from not knowing, or not allowing, 
this general principle, that men of genius have 
committed some signal mistakes. They have given 
us exquisite and just delineations of the more pecu- 
liar characteristics of women, as modesty, grace, 
tenderness ; and when they have attempted to por- 
tray them with the powers common to both sexes, 
as wit, energy, intellect, they have blundered in 
some respect; they could form no conception of 
intellect which was not masculine, and therefore 
have either suppressed the feminine attributes alto- 
gether and drawn coarse caricatures, or they have 
made them completely artificial.f Women dis- 
tinguished for wit may sometimes appear mascu- 
line and flippant, but the cause must be sought 
elsewhere than in nature, w^ho disclauns all such. 
Hence the witty and intellectual ladies of our 
comedies and novels are all in the fashion of some 
particular time ; they are like some old portraits 

* Artemisia Gentileschi, an Italian artist of the seventeenth 
century, painted one or two pictures, considered admirable as 
•works of art, of which the subjects are the most vicious and bar- 
barous conceivable. I remember one of these in the gallery of 
Florence, which I looked at once, but once, and wished then, as 
I do now, for the privilege of burning it to ashes. 

t Lucy Ashton, in the Bride of Lammermoor, may be placed 
next to Desdcniona ; Diana Vernon is (comparatively) a failure, 
as every woman will allow ; while the masculine lady Geraldine, 
in Miss Edgoworth's tale of Eanui, and the intellectual Coriune, 
are consistent, essential women ; the distinction is more easily 
felt than analyzed. 



55 



■which can still amuse and please by the beauty of 
the workmanship, in spite of the graceless costume 
or grotesque accompaniments, but from which we 
turn to woi'ship with ever new delight the Floras 
and goddesses of Titian — the saints and the vir- 
gins of Raffaclle and Domenichino. So the Milla- 
mants and Belindas, the Lady Townleys and Lady 
Teazles are out of date, while Portia and Rosalind, 
in whom nature and the feminine character are 
paramount, remain bright and fresh to the fancy 
as when first created. 

Portia, Isabella, Beatrice, and Rosahnd, may be 
classed together, as characters of intellect, because, 
when compared with others, they are at once dis- 
tinguished by their mental superiority. In Portia, 
it is intellect kindled into romance by a poetical 
imagination ; in Isabel, it is intellect elevated by 
reUgious principle ; in Beatrice, intellect animated 
by spirit; in Rosalind, intellect softened by sensi- 
bility. The wit which is lavished on each is pro- 
found, or pointed, or sparkling, or playful — but 
always feminine ; like spirits distilled from flowers, 
it always reminds us of its origin ; it is a volatile 
essence, sweet as powerful; and to pursue the 
comparison a step further, the Avit of Portia is like 
ottar of roses, rich and concentrated; that of 
Rosalind, Uke cotton dipped in aromatic vinegar ; 
the "wit of Beatrice is like sal volatile ; and that of 
Isabel, like the incense wafted to heaven. Of 
these four exquisite characters, considered as dra- 
matic and poetical conceptions, it is diflicult to pro- 



56 CnARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

nounce whicli is most perfect in its way, most 
admirably drawn, most highly finished. But if 
considered in another point of view, as women and 
individuals, as breathing realities, clothed in flesh 
and blood, I believe we must assign the first rank 
to Portia, as uniting in herself in a more eminent 
degree than the others, all the noblest and most 
lovable qualities that ever met together in woman ;/ 
and presenting a complete personification of Pe- 
ti-arch's exquisite epitome of female perfection : — - 

n vago spirito ardento, 
E'n alto intelletto, uu pui'o core. 

It is singular, that hitherto no critical justice has 
been done to the character of Portia ; it is yet more 
wonderful, that one of the finest writers on the 
eternal subject of Shakspeare and his perfections, 
should accuse Portia of pedantry and affectation, 
and confess she is not a great favorite of his^^a 
confession quite worthy of him, who avers his pre- 
dilection^ for servant-maids, and his preference of 
the Fannys and the Pamelas over the Clementinas 
and Clarissas.* Schlegel, who has given several 
pages to a rapturous eulogy on the Mercnant of 
Venice, simply designates Portia as a " rich, beauti- 
ful, clever heiress : "—whether the fault lie in the 
writer or translator, I do protest against the word 
clever.f Portia clever ! what an epithet to apply 

* Ilazlitt's Essays, vol. ii. p. 167. 

t I am informed that the original German word is geistretche, 
literally, rich in soul or spirit^ a just and beautiful epithet. 2d 
Edit. 



PORTIA. 57 

to this heavenly compound of talent, feeling, wis- 
dom, beauty, and gentleness ! Now would it not 
be well, if this common and comprehensive word 
were more accurately defined, or at least more 
accurately used? It signifies properly, not so 
much the possession of high powers, as dexterity in 
the adaptation of certain faculties (not necessarily 
of a high order) to a certain end or aim — not 
always the worthiest. It impUes something com- 
monplace, inasmuch as it speaks the presence of 
the active and perceptive, with a deficiency of the 
feeling and reflective powers ; and applied to a wo- 
man, does it not almost invariably suggest the idea 
of something we should distrust or shrink from, if 
not allied to a higher nature ? The profligate 
French women, who ruled the councils of Europe 
in the middle of the last century, were clever 
women ; and that philosopheress Madame du Chate- 
let, who managed, at one and the same moment, 
the thread of an intrigue, her cards at piquet, and 
a calculation in algebra, was a very clever woman ! 
If Portia had been created as a mere instrument to 
bring about a dramatic catastrophe — if she had 
merely detected the flaw in Antonio's bond; and 
used it as a means to baffle the Jew, she might have 
been pronounced a clever woman. But what Por- 
tia does, is forgotten in what she is. The rare and 
harmonious blending of energy, reflection, and feel- 
ing, in her fine character, make the epithet clever 
sound like a discord as applied to her, and place 
her infinitely beyond the slight praise of Richardson 



58 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

and Sclilegel, neither of wliom appear to have fully 
comprehended her. 

These and other critics have been apparently so 
dazzled and engrossed by the amazing character of 
Shylock, that Portia has received less than justice 
at their hands ; while the fact is, that Shylock is 
not a finer or more finished character in his way, 
than Portia is in hers. These two splendid figures 
are worthy of each other ; worthy of being placed 
together within the same rich framework of en- 
chanting poetry, and glorious and graceful forms. 
She hangs beside the terrible, inexorable Jew, the 
brilliant lights of her character set off by the shad- 
owy power of his, like a magnificent beauty- 
breathing Titian by the side of a gorgeous Rem- 
brandt. 

Portia is endued with her own share of those 
delightful qualities, which Shakspeare has lavished 
on many of his female characters ; but besides the 
dignity, the sweetness, and tenderness which should 
distinguish her sex generally, she is individualized 
by qualities peculiar to herself; by her high mental 
powers, her enthusiasm of temperament, her decis- 
ion of purpose, and her buoyancy of spirit. These 
are innate ; she has other distinguishing qualities 
more external, and which are the result of the cir- 
cumstances in which she is placed. Thus she is 
the heiress of a princely name and countless wealth ; 
a train of obedient pleasures have ever waited 
round her; and from infancy she has breathed an 
atmosphere redolent of perfume and blandishment. 



roRTiA. 59 

V Accordingly there is a commanding grace, a liigli- 
bred, airy elegance, a spirit of magnificence in all 
that she does and says, as one to whom splendor 
had been familiar from her very birth, fehe treads 
as though her footsteps had been among marble 
palaces, beneath roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar 
floors and pavements of jasper and porphyry — 
amid gardens full of statues, and flowers, and foun- 
tains, and haunting music. ) She is full of penetra- 
tive wisdom, and genuine tenderness, and livifly 
wit ; but as she has never known want, or grief, or 
fear, or disappointment, her wisdom is without a 
touch of the sombre or the sad ; her afFections are 
all mixecj up with faith, hope and joy; and her wit 
has not a particle of malevolence or causticity. 

It is well known that the Merchant of Venice is 
founded on two diiFerent tales; and in weaving 
together his double plot in so masterly a manner, 
Shakspeare has rejected altogether the character of 
the astutious Lady of Belmont with her magic po- 
tions, who figures in the Italian novel. With yet 
more refinement, he has thrown out all the licen- 
tious part of the story, which some of his contem- 
porary dramatists would have seized on with a^^dity, 
and made the best or worst of it possible ; and he 
has substituted the trial of the caskets from another 
source.* We are not told expressly where Belmont 

* In the " Mercatante di Venezla " of Ser. Giovanni, we have 
the whole story of Antonio and Bassanio, and part of the story, 
bnt not the character of Portia. The incident of the caskets is 
from the Gesta Komanorum. 



60 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

is situated ; but as Bassanio takes ship to go thither 
from Venice, and as we find them afterwards order- 
ing horses from Behnont to Padua, we will imagine 
Portia's hereditary palace as standing on some 
lovely promontory between Venice and Trieste, 
overlooking the blue Adriatic, with the Friuli 
mountains or the Euganean hills for its background, 
such as we often see in one of Claude's or Poussin's 
elysian landscapes. In a scene, in a home like this, 
Shakspeare, having first exorcised the original pos- 
sessor, has placed his Portia ; and so endowed her, 
that all the wild, strange, and moving circumstances 
of the story, become natural, probable, and neces- 
sary in connexion with her. That such a woman 
should be chosen by the solving of an enigma, is 
not surprising : herself and all around her, the 
scene, the country, the age in which she is placed, 
breathe of poetry, romance, and enchantment. 

From the four qtiarters of the earth they come 
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathinj^ saint. 
The Hyi'canian desert, and the vasty wilds 
Of wide Arabia, are as thoroughfares now. 
For princes to come view fairPortiar 
The watery kingdom, whose ambitioixs head 
Spits in the face of lifeaven is no bar 
To stop the foreign spirits ; but they come 
As o'er a brook to sec fair Portia. 

The sudden plan which she fonns for the release 
of her husband's friend, her disguise, and her de- 
portment as the young and learned doctor, would 
appear forced and improbable in any other woman 



PORTIA. Gl 

but in Poi-tia are the simple and natural result of 
her character.* The quickness with which she 
perceives the legal advantage which may be taken 
of the circumstances ; the spirit of adventure with 
w^hich she engages in the masquerading, and the 
decision, firmness, and intelligence with which she 
executes her generous purpose, are all in perfect 
keeping, and nothing appears forced — nothing as 
introduced merely for theatrical eifect. 

But all the finest parts of Portia's character are 
brought to bear in the trial scene. There she 
sliines forth all her divine self. Her intellectual 
powei'S, her elevated sense of religion, her high 
honorable principles, her best feelings as a woman, 
are all displayed. She maintains at first a calm 
self-command, as one sure of carrying her point in 
the end ; yet the painful heart-thrilling uncertainty 
in which she keeps the whole court, until suspense 
verges upon agony, is not contrived for eifect 
merely ; it is necessary and inevitable. She has 
two objects in view; to deliver her husband's 
friend, and to maintain her husband's honor by 
the discharge of his just debt, though paid out of 
her own wealth ten times over. It is evident that 
she would rather owe the safety of Antonio to any 
thing rather than the legal quibble with which her 
cousin Bellario has armed her, and which she 



* In that age, delicate points of law were not determined by 
the ordinary judges of the provinces, but by doctors of law, who 
were called from Bologna, Padua, and other places celebrated for 
th(!u: legal colleges. 



02 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

reserves as a last resource. Thus all the speeches 
addressed to Shylock in the first instance, are 
either direct or indirect experiments on his tem- 
per and feelings. She must b6 understood from 
the befrinnino; to the end as examininfr with in- 
tense anxiety, the effect of her own words on his 
mind and countenance ; as watching for that relent- 
ing spirit, which she hopes to awaken either by 
reason or persuasion. She begins by an appeal to 
his mercy, in that matchless piece of eloquence, 
v/hich, with an irresistible and solemn pathos, falls 
upon the heart like " gentle dew from heaven : " — 
but in vain ; for that blessed dew drops not more 
fruitless and unfelt on the parched sand of the 
desert, than do these heavenly words upon the ear 
of Shylock. She next attacks his avarice : 

Shylock, there's thice thy money offered thee ! 

Then she appeals, in the same breath, both to his 
avarice and his pity : 

Be merciful ! 
Take thrice tliy money. Bid me tear the bond. 

All that she says afterwards — her strong expres- 
sions, which are calculated to strike a shuddering 
horror through the nerves — the reflections she 
interposes — her delays and circumlocution to give 
time for any latent feeling of commiseration to dis- 
play itself — all, all are premeditated and tend in 
the same manner to the object she has in view. 
Thus— 

You must prepare yoiir bosom for his knife. 
Therefore lay bare your bosom ! 



PORTIA. 63 

These two speeches, though addressed apparently 
to Antonio, are spoken at Shylock, and are evi- 
dently intended to penetrate his bosom. In the 
same spirit she asks for the balance to weigh the 
pound of flesh ; and entreats of Shylock to have a 
surgeon ready — 

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death ! 

SHYLOCK. 

Is it so nominated in the bond V 

PORTIA. 

It is not so expressed — but what of that ? 
'Twere good you do so much, for charity. 

So unwilling is her sanguine and generous spirit 
to resign all hope, or to believe that humanity is 
absolutely extinct in the bosom of the Jew, that 
she calls on Antonio, as a last resource, to speak for 
himself. His gentle, yet manly resignation — the 
deep pathos of his farewell, and the affectionate 
allusion to herself in his last address to Bassanio — ■ 

Commend me to yoiu: honorable wife ; 

Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death, &c. 

are well calculated to swell that emotion, which 
through the whole scene must have been laboring 
suppressed within her heart. 

At length the crisis arrives, for patience and 
womanhood can endure no longer; and when 
Shylock, carrying his savage bent " to the last 
hour of act," springs on his victim — "A sentence I 



Gi CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

come, prepare ! " then the smothered scorn, indig- 
nation, and disgust, burst forth with an impetuosity 
which interferes with the judicial solemnity she 
had at first affected ; — ^particularly in the speech — • 

Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 

Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 

But just the pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more. 

Or less than a just pound, — be it but so much 

As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 

Or the division of the twentieth part 

Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn 

But in the estimation of a hair, — 

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

But she afterwards recovers her propriety, and 
triumphs with a cooler scorn and a more self- 
possessed exultation. 

It is clear that, to feel the full force and dramatic 
beauty of this marvellous scene, we must go along 
with Portia as well as with Shylock; we must 
understand her concealed purpose, keep in mind 
her noble motives, and pursue in our fancy the 
under current of feeling, working in her mind 
throughout. The terror and the power of Shylock's 
character, — his deadly and inexorable mahce, — 
would be too oppressive ; the pain and pity too 
intolerable, and the horror of the possible issue 
too overwhelming, but for the intellectual rehef 
afforded by this double source of interest and con- 
templation. 

I come now to that capacity for warm and gen- 
erous affection, that tenderness of heart, which 



PORTIA. 65 

render Poi-tia not less lovable as a woman, than 
admirable for her mental endowments. The affec- 
tions are to the intellect, what the forge is to the 
metal ; it is they which temper and shape it to all 
good purposes, and soften, strengthen, and purify 
it. IVliat an exquisite stroke of judgment in the 
poet, to make the mutual passion of Portia and 
Bassanio, though unacknowledged to each other, 
anterior to the opening of the play ! Bassanio's 
confession very properly comes first : — 

BASSANIO. 

In Belmont is a lady richly left, 
And she is fair, and fairer than that word, " 
Of wond' reus virtues; sometimes from her eyes 
I did receive fair speechless messages; 

***** 

and prepares us for Portia's half betrayed, uncon- 
scious election of this most gi-aceful and chivalrous 
admirer — 

KERIS'SA. 

Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a 
Venetiim, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither m 
company of the Marquis of MoutfeiTat ? 

PORTIA. 

Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, so he was called. 

NERISSA. 

True, madam ; he of all the men that ever my fool- 
ish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair 
lady. 

PORTIA. 

I remember him well; and I remember him worthy of 
thy praise. 

5 



66 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

Our Interest is tlius awakened for the lovers 
from the very first ; and what shall be said of the 
casket-scene with Bassauio, where every line which 
Portia speaks is so worthy of herself, so full of sen- 
timent and beauty, and poetry and passion ? Too 
naturally frank for disguise, too modest to confess 
her depth of love while the issue of the trial re- 
mains in suspense, the conflict between love and 
fear, and maidenly dignity, cause the most delicious 
confusion that ever tinged a woman's cheek, or 
dropped in broken utterance from her lips. 



I pray you, tairy, pause a day or two. 
Before you hazard; for in choosing wrong, 
I lose your company ; therefore, forbear awhile ; 
There's something tells me, (but it is not love,) 
I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality: 
But lest you should not understand me well, 
(And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,) 
I woiild detain you here some month or two 
Befoi-e you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right, — but then I am forsworn ; — 
So will I never be : so you may miss me ; — 
But if you do, you'll make mo wish a sin, 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
They have o'erlooked me, and divided me: 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, — 
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours. 
And so all yours ! 

The short dialogue between the lovers is ex- 
quisite. 



PORTIA. 
BASSANIO. 

Let me choose ; 
For, as I am, I live upon the rack. 

PORTIA. 

Upon the rack, Bassanio ? Then confess 
What treason there is mingled with your love. 

BASSASnO. 

None, but that ugly treason of mistrust. 
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love. 
There may as well be amity and life 
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 



Ay ! but I fear you speak upon the rack, 
Where men enforced do speak any thing. 

BASSANIO. 

Promise me life, and I'U confess the truth. 

PORTIA. 

Well then, confess, and live. 

BASSANIO. 

Confess and love 
Had been the very sum of my confession ! 
happy torment, when my tortui'er 
Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! 

A prominent feature in Portia's character is that 
confiding, buoyant spirit, whicli mingles with all 
her thoughts and affections. And here let me ob- 
serve, that I never yet met in real life, nor ever 
read in tale or history, of any woman, distinguished 



68 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

for intellect of the highest order, who was not also 
remarkable for this trusting spiiit, this hopefulness 
and cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible 
with the most serious habits of thought, and the 
most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley Montagu 
was one instance ; and Madame de Stael furnishes 
another much more memorable. In her Corinne, 
whom she drew from herself, this natural brightness ' 
of temper is a prominent part of the character. A 
disposition to doubt, to suspect, and to despond, in 
the young, argues, in general, some inherent weak- 
ness, moral or physical, or some miserable and rad- 
ical error of education ; in the old, it is one of the 
first symptoms of age ; it speaks of the influence of 
sorrow and experience, and foreshows the decay of 
the stronger and more generous powers of the soul. 
Portia's strength of intellect takes a natural tinge 
from the flush and bloom of her young and prosper- 
ous existence, and from her fervent imagination. 
In the casket-scene, she fears indeed the issue of 
the trial, on which more tlian her life is hazarded ; 
but while she trembles, her hope is stronger than 
her fear. While Bassanio is contemplating the 
caskets, she suffers herself to dwell for one moment 
on the possibiKty of disappointment and misery. 



Let music sound while ho doth make his choice; 
Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 
Fading in music : that the comparison 
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream 
And waterv death-bed for him. 



PORTIA. 69 

Then immediately follows that revulsion of feel- 
ing, so beautifully characteristic of the hopeful, 
trusting, mounting spirit of this noble creature. 

But he may wm ! 
And what is music then ? — then music is 
Even as the flourish, Avlien true siibjects bow 
To a new-crowned monarch : such it is 
As are those diilcet sounds at break of day, 
That ci-eep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, 
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes 
With no less presence, but with much more love 
Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
To the sea monster. I stand here for sacrifice. 

Here, not only the feeling itself, born of the 
elastic and sanguine spirit which had never been 
touched by grief, but the images in which it comes 
arrayed to her fancy, — the bridegroom waked by 
music on his wedding-morn, — the new-crowned 
monarch, — the comparison of Bassanio to the young 
Alcides, and of herself to the daughter of Laome- 
don, — are all precisely what would have suggested 
themselves to the fine poetical imagination of Por- 
tia in such a moment. 

Her passionate exclamations of delight, when 
Bassanio has fixed on the right casket, are as strong 
as though she had despaired before. Fear and 
doubt she could repel ; the native elasticity of her 
mind bore up against them ; yet she makes us feel, 
that, as the sudden joy overpowers her almost to 
fainting, the disappointment would as certainly 
have killed her. 



70 CHARACTERS OP INTELLECT. 

How all the other passions fleet to air, 

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 

And shudd'ring fear, and green-eyed jealousy? 

love! be moderate, allay thy ecstasy; 
In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess ; 

1 feel too much thy blessing : make it less, 
For fear I surfeit ! 

Her subsequent surrender of herself in heart and 
soul, of her maiden freedom, and her vast posses- 
sions, can never be read without deep emotions ; 
for not only all the tenderness and delicacy of a 
devoted woman, are here blended with all the 
dignity which becomes the princely heiress of Bel- 
mont, but the serious, measured self-possession of 
her address to her lover, when all suspense is over, 
and all concealment superfluous, is most beautifully 
consistent with the character. It is, in truth, an 
awful moment, that in which a gifted woman first 
discovers, that besides talents and powers, she has 
also passions and affections ; when she first begins 
to suspect their vast importance in the sum of her 
existence ; when she first confesses that her happi- 
ness is no longer in her own keeping, but is sur- 
rendered forever and forever into the dominion 
of another ! The possession of uncommon powers 
of mind are so far from affording rehef or resource 
in the first intoxicating surprise — I had almost said 
terror — of such a revolution, that they render it 
more intense. The sources of thought multiply 
beyond calculation the sources of feeling; and 
mingled, they rush together, a torrent deep as 



71 



strong. Because Portia is endued with that en- 
larged comprehension which looks before and after, 
she does not feel the less, but the more : because 
from the height of her commanding intellect she 
can contemplate the force, the tendency, the con- 
sequences of her own sentiments — because she is 
fully sensible of her own situation, and the value 
of all she concedes — the concession is not made 
with less entireness and devotion of heart, less con- 
fidence in the truth and worth of her lover, than 
when Juhet, in a similar moment, but without any 
such intrusive reflections — any check but the in- 
stinctive delicacy of her sex, flings herself and her 
fortunes at the feet of her lover : 

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay. 
And follow thee, my lord, through all the world.* 
In Portia's confessioif, which is not breathed from 
a moonlit balcony, but spoken openly in the pres- 
ence of her attendants and vassals, there is nothiufi* 
of the passionate self-abandonment of JuHet, nor 
of the artless simplicity of Miranda, but a concious- 
uess and a tender seriousness, approaching to 
solemnity, which are not less touching. 

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand. 

Such as I am : though for myself alone, 

I would not be ambitious in my wish, 

To wish myself much better ; yet, for you, 

I would be trebled twenty times myself; 

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 

* Romeo and Juliet, Act ii. Scene 2. 



72 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

More rich ; that only to stand high in your account, 

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 

Exceed account ; but the full sura of me 

Is sum of something; which to term in gross, 

Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd, 

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 

But she may learn ; and happier than this. 

She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 

Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 

Commits itself to yours to be directed, 

As from her lord, her governor, her king. 

Mj^self and what is mine, to you and yours 

Is now converted. But now, I was the lord, 

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 

Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 

This house, these servants, and this same myself, 

Are yours, my lord. 

We must also remark that the sweetness, the 
solicitude, the subdued fondness which she after- 
wards displays, relative to the letter, are as true to 
the softness of her sex, as the generous self-denial 
with which she urges the departure of Bassanio, 
(having first given him a husband's right over her- 
self and all her countless wealth,) is consistent with 
a reflecting mind, and a spirit at once tender, 
reasonable, and magnanimous. 

It is not only in the trial scene that Portia's 
acuteness, eloquence, and lively intelligence are 
revealed to us ; they are displayed in the first in- 
stance, and kept up consistently to the end. Her 
reflections, arising from the most usual aspects of 
nature, and from the commonest incidents of life, 
are in such a poetical spirit, and are at the same 



73 



time so pointed, so profound, that they have passed 
into familiar and daily application, with all the 
force of proverbs. 

If to do, were as easy as to know what were good to 
do, chapels had been churches, aud poor men's cottages 
princes' palaces. 

I can easier teach twenty what were good to he done, 
than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. 

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark. 
When neither is attended ; and, I think, 
The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
When eveiy goose is cackling, would be thought 
No better a musician than the wren. 
How many things by season, seasoned are 
To their right praise and true perfection ! 

How far that Httle candle throws his beams ! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
A substitute shines as brightly as a king, 
Until a king be by ; and then his state 
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook, 
Into the main of waters. 

Her reflections on the friendship between her 
husband and Antonio are as full of deep meaning 
as of tenderness ; and her portrait of a young cox- 
comb, in the same scene, is touched with a truth 
and spirit which show with what a keen observing 
eye she has looked upon men and things. 

I'll hold thee any wager. 

When we are both accouter'd like young men, 
I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
And wear my dagger with the braver grace 



74 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

And speak, between the change of man and boy, 

With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps 

Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays. 

Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies — 

How honorable ladies sought my love, 

Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; 

I could not do withal : then I'll repent, 

And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them ; 

And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell. 

That men should swear, I have discontinued school 

Above a twelvemonth ! 

And in the description of lier various suitors, in 
tlie first scene witli Nerissa, what infinite power, 
wit, and vivacity ! She half checks herself as she 
is about to give the reins to her sportive humor : 
" In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker." — 
But if it carries her away, it is so perfectly good- 
natured, so temperately bright, so lady-Hke, it is 
ever without ofience ; and so far, most unHke the 
satirical, poignant, unsparing wit of Beatrice, " mis- 
prising what she loolcs on." In fact, I can scarce 
conceive a greater contrast than between the vivac- 
ity of Portia and the vivacity of Beatrice. Portia, 
with all her airy brilliance, is supremely soft and 
dignified; every thing she says or does, displays 
her capability for profound thought and feeling, as 
well as her lively and romantic disposition ; and as 
I have seen in an Itahan garden a fountain fling- 
ing round its wreaths of showery light, while the 
many-colored Iris hung brooding above it, in its 
calm and soul-felt glory ; so in Portia the wit is 
ever kept subordinate to the poetry, and we still 



PORTIA. 75 

feel the tender, the intellectual, and the imagina- 
tive part of the character, as superior to, and pre- 
siding over its spirit and vivacity. 

In the last act, Shylock and his machinations be- 
ing dismissed from our thoughts, and the rest of the 
dramatis persnnce assembled together at Belmont, 
all our interest and all our attention are riveted 
on Portia, and the conclusion leaves the most de- 
lightful impression on the fancy. The playful 
equivoque of the rings, the sportive trick she puts 
on her husband, and her thorough enjoyment of 
the jest, which she checks just as it is proceeding 
beyond the bounds of propriety, show how little 
she was displeased by the sacrifice of her gift, and 
are all consistent with her bright and buoyant 
spirit. In conclusion, when Portia invites her com- 
pany to enter her palace to refresh themselves 
after their travels, and talk over " these events at 
full," the imagination, unAvilling to lose sight of the 
brilhant group, follows them in gay procession from 
the Lovely moonlight garden to marble halls and 
princely revels, to splendor and festive mirth, to 
love and happiness. 

Many women have possessed many of those 
qualities which render Portia so delightful. She 
is in herself a piece of reality, in whose possible 
existence we have no doubt : and yet a human 
being, in whom the moral, intellectual, and sen- 
tient faculties should be so exquisitely blended and 
proportioned to each other; and these again, in 
harmony with all outward aspects and influences, 



76 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

probably never existed — certainly could not no^ 
exist. A woman constituted like Portia, and placed 
in this age, and in the actual state of society, would 
find society armed against her ; and instead of be- 
ing Hke Portia, a gracious, happy, beloved, and 
loving creature, would be a victim, immolated in 
fire to that multitudinous Moloch termed Opinion. 
With her, the world without would be at war with 
the world within ; in the perpetual strife, either 
her nature would " be subdued to the element it 
worked in," and bending to a necessity it could 
neither escape nor approve, lose at last something 
of its original brightness; or otherwise — a per- 
petual spirit of resistance, cherished as a safeguard, 
might perhaps in the end destroy the equipoise ; 
firmness would become pride and self-assurance ; 
and the soft, sweet, feminine texture of the mind, 
settle into rigidity. Is there then no sanctuary for 
such a mind ? — Where shall it find a refuge from 
the world ? — Where seek for strength against it- 
self? Where, but in heaven ? 

Camiola, in Massinger's Maid of Honor, is said to 
emulate Portia ; and the real story of Camiola (for 
she is an historical personage) is very beautiful. 
She was a lady of Messina, who lived in the begin- 
ning -of the fourteenth century; and was the con- 
temporary of Queen Joanna, of Petrarch and Boc- 
caccio. It fell out in those days, that Prince Or- 
lando of Arragon, the younger brother of th-e King 
of Sicily, having taken the command of a naval 
armament against the Neapohtans, was defeated, 



PORTIA. 77 

wounded, taken prisoner, and confined by Robert 
of Naples (the father of Queen Joanna) in one 
of his strongest castles. As the prince had distin- 
guished himself by his enmity to the Neapolitans, 
and by many exploits against them, his ransom was 
fixed at an exorbitant sum, and his captivity was 
unusually severe ; while the King of Sicily, who 
had some cause of displeasure against his brother, 
and imputed to him the defeat of his armament, re- 
fused either to negotiate for his release, or to pay 
the ransom demanded. 

Orlando, who was celebrated for his fine person 
and reckless valour, was apparently doomed to 
languish away the rest of his life in a dungeon, 
when Camiola Turinga, a rich Sicilian heiress, de- 
voted the half of her fortune to release him. But 
as such an action might expose her to evil com- 
ments, she made it a condition, that Orlando should 
marry her. The' prince gladly accepted the terms, 
and sent her the contract of marriage, signed by 
his hand ; but no sooner was he at liberty, than he 
refused to fulfil it, and even denied all knoAvledge 
of his benefactress. 

Camiola appealed to the tribunal of state, pro- 
duced the written contract, and described the obli- 
gations she had heaped on this ungrateful and un- 
generous man ; sentence was given against him, 
and he was adjudged to Camiola, not only as her 
rightful husband, but as a property which, accord- 
ing to the laws of war in that age, she had purchased 
with her gold. The day of marriage was fixed ; 



78 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

Orlando presented himself with a splendfd'retlnue ; 
Camiola also appeared, decorated as fdf^r bridal ; 
but instead of bestowing her hand on the recreant, 
she reproached him in the presence of all with his 
breach of faith, declared her irtter contempt for his 
baseness; and then freely bestowTg on him the 
sura paid for his ransom, as a- gift worthy of his 
mean soul, she turned away, -atid dedicated herself 
and her heart to heaven. In this resolution she 
remained inflexible, though the, king and all the 
court united in entreaties to soften her. She took 
the veil ; and Orlando, henceforth regarded as one 
who had stained his knighthood, and violated his 
faith, passed the rest of his life as a dishonored 
man, and died in obscurity. 

Camiola, in " The Maid of Honor," is, like Por- 
tia, a wealthy heiress, surrounded by suitors, and 
" queen o'er herself: " the character is constructed 
upon the same principles, as great intellectual 
power, magnanimity of temper, and feminine ten- 
derness ; but not only do pain and disquiet, and 
the change induced by unkind and inauspicious in- 
fluences, enter into this sweet picture to mar and 
cloud its happy beauty,— but the portrait itself may 
be pronounced out of drawing ; — for Massinger ap- 
parently had not sufficient delicacy of sentiment, to 
work out his own conception of the character with 
perfect consistency. In his adaptation of the story, 
he represents the mutual love of Orlando and Ca- 
miola as existing previous to the captivity of the 
former, and on his part declared with many vows 



79 



of eternal faith, yet sTie requires a -written contract 
of marriage before she Hberates him. It will per- 
haps be said that she has penetrated his weakness, 
and anticipates his falsehood : miserable excuse ! — 
how could a magnanimous woman love a man, 
whose falsehood she beUeves but possible ? — or lov- 
ing him, how could she deign to secure herself by 
such means against the consequences ? Shakspeare 
and Nature never committed such a solecism. Ca- 
miola doubts before she has been wronged; the 
firmness and assurance in herself border on harsh- 
ness. ^Yhat in Portia is the gentle wisdom of a 
noble nature, appears, in Camiola, too much a 
spirit of calculation : it savors a Kttle of the count- 
ing house. As Portia is the heiress of Belmont, 
and Camiola a merchant's daughter, the distinction 
may be proper and characteristic, but it is not in 
favor of Camiola. The con^*ast may be thus il- 
lustrated : 

CAMIOLA. 

You have heard of Bertoldo's captivity and the king's 
neglect, the gi-eatness of his ransom; ffty thousand 
crowns, Adorui ! Two parts of my estate ! Yet I so 
love the gentleman, for to you I will confess my weak- 
ness, that I purpose now, when he is forsaken by the 
king and his own hopes, to ransom him. 

Maid of Honor, Act. 3. 

PORTIA. 

What sum owes he the Jew? 

BASSANIO. 

For nie — three thousand ducats. 



80 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

PORTIA. 

What ! no more ! 

Pay him six thousand and deface the bond, 

Double six thousand, and then ti-eble that, 

Before a friend of this description 

Shall lose a hair thro' my Bassanio's fault. 

You shall have gold 

To pay the petty debt twenty times o'er. 

Merchant of Venice. 

Camiola, wlio is a Sicilian, might as well have been 
born at Amsterdam : Portia could have only existed 
in Italy. Portia is profound as she is brilliant; 
Camiola is sensible and sententious ; she asserts her 
dignity very successfully ; but we cannot for a mo- 
ment imagine Portia as reduced to the necessity of 
asserting hers. The idiot Sylli, in " The Maid of 
Honor," who follows Camiola like one of the de- 
formed dwarfs of old time, is an intolerable viola- 
tion of taste and propriety, and it sensibly lowers 
our impression of the principal character. Shak- 
speare would never have placed Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek in constant and immediate approximation 
with such a woman as Portia. 

Lastly, the charm of the poetical coloring is 
wholly wanting in Camiola, so that when she is 
placed in contrast with the glowing eloquence, the 
luxuriant gi^ace, the buoyant spirit of Portia, the 
effect is somewhat that of coldness and formality. 
Notwithstanding the dignity and the beauty of 
Massinger's delineation, and the noble self-devotion 
of Camiola, which I acknowledge and admire, the 



PORTIA. 81 

two characters will admit of no comparison as 
sources of contemplation and pleasure. 



It is observable that something of the intellectual 
briUiance of Portia is reflected on the other female 
characters of the " Merchant of Venice," so as to 
preserve in the midst of contrast a certain harmony 
and keeping. Thus Jessica, though properly kept 
subordinate, is certainly 

A most beautiful pagan — a most sweet Jew. 

She cannot be called a sketch — or if a sketch, she 
is like one of those dashed off in glowing colors 
from the rainbow pallette of a Rubens ; she has a 
rich tinge of orientahsm shed over her, worthy of 
her eastern origin. In any other play, and in any 
other companionship than that of the matchless 
Portia, Jessica would make a very beautiful heroine 
of herself. Nothing can be more poetically, more 
classically fanciful and elegant, than the scenes be- 
tween her and Lorenzo ; — the celebrated moonlight 
dialogue, for instance, which we all have by heart. 
Every sentiment she utters interests us for her : — 
more particularly her bashful self-reproach, when 
flying in the disguise of a page ; — 



I am glad 'tis night, you do not look upon me, 
For I am much asliam'd of my exchange; 
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 



82 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

The pretty follies that themselves commit ; 
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
To see me thus transformed to a boy. 

And tlie enthusiastic and generous testimony to 
the superior graces and accomplishments of Portia 
comes with a peculiar grace from her lips. 

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, 
And on the wager lay two eartlily women. 
And Portia one, there must be something else 
Pawned with the other; for the poor rude world 
Hath not her fellow. 

We should not, however, easily pardon her for 
cheating her father with so much indifference, but" 
for the perception that Shylock values his daughter 
far beneath his wealth. 

I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the 
jewels in her ear! — would she were hearsed at my foot, 
and the ducats in her coffin ! 

Nerissa Is a good specimen of a common genus 
of characters ; she is a clever confidential waiting- 
woman, who has caught a little of her lady's ele- 
gance and romance ; she affects to be lively and 
sententious, falls in love, and makes her favor 
conditional on the fortune of the caskets, and in 
short mimics her mistress with good emphasis and 
discretion. Nerlssa and the gay talkative Gratiano 
are as well matched as the incomparable Portia 
and her magnificent and captivating lover. 



ISABELLA. 83 



ISABELLA. 



The character of Isabella, considered as a poet- 
ical delineation, is less mixed than that of Portia ; 
and the dissimilarity between the two appears, at 
first view, so complete that we can scarce believe 
that the same elements enter into the composi- 
tion of each. Yet so it is ; they are portrayed as 
equally wise, gracious, vii-tuous, fair, and young; 
we perceive in both the same exalted principle 
and firmness of character; the same depth of 
reflection and persuasive eloquence; the same 
self-denj-ing generosity and capability of strong 
afiections; and we must wonder at that marvel- 
lous power by which qualities and endowments, 
essentially and closely allied, are so combined and 
modified as to produce a result altogether different. 
" O Nature ! O Shakspeare ! which of ye drew 
from the other ? " 

Isabella is distinguished from Portia, and strongly 
individualized by a certain moral grandeur, a saintly 
grace, something of vestal dignity and purity, which 
render her less attractive and more imposing ; she 
is " severe in youthful beauty," and inspires a rev- 
erence which would have placed her beyond the 
daring of one unholy wish or thought, except in 
such a man as Angelo — 

cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, < 

With saints dost bait thy hook ! 



84 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

This impression of her character is conveyed 
from the very first, when Lucio, the libertine jester, 
whose coarse audacious wit checks at every feather, 
thus expresses his respect for her, — 

I would not — though 'tis my familiar sin 
With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest 
Tongue far from heart — play with all virgins so. 
I hold you as a thing enskyed, and sainted; 
By your renouncement an immortal spirit, 
And to be talked with in sincerity. 
As with a saint. 

A strong distinction between Isabella and Por- 
tia is produced by the circumstances in which they 
are respectively placed. Portia is a high-born 
heiress, " Lord of a fair mansion, master of her ser- 
vants, queen o'er herself; " easy and decided, as 
one born to command, and used to iu Isabella 
has also the innate dignity which renders her 
" queen o'er herself," but she has lived far from 
the world and its pomps and pleasures ; she is one 
of a consecrated sisterhood — a novice of St. Clare ; 
the power to command obedience and to con- 
fer happiness are to her unknown. Portia is a 
splendid creature, radiant with confidence, hope, 
and joy. She is like the orange-tree, hung at 
once with golden fruit and luxuriant flowers, which 
has expanded into bloom and fragrance beneath 
favoring skies, and has been nursed into beauty by 
the sunshine and the dews of heaven. Isabella is 
like a stately and graceful cedar, towering on some 
alpine chff, unbowed and unscathed amid the 



ISABELLA. 85 

storm. She gives us the impression of one who 
has passed under the ennobling discipline of suf- 
fering and self-denial: a melancholy charm tem- 
pers the natural vigor of her mind: her spirit 
seems to stand upon an eminence, and look down 
upon the world as if already enskyed and sainted ; 
and yet when brought in contact with that world 
which she inwardly despises, she shrinks back with 
all the timidity natural to her cloistral education. 

This union of natural grace and grandeur with 
the habits and sentiments of a recluse, — of auster- 
ity of life with gentleness of manner, — of inflexible 
moral principle with humility and even bashful- 
ness of deportment, is dehneated with the most 
beautiful and wonderful consistency. Thus when 
her brother sends to her, to entreat her mediation, 
her first feeling is fear, and a distrust in her own 
powers : 

. . . Alas ! what poor ability's in me 
To do him good? 

LUCIO. 

Essay the power you have. 

ISABELLA. 

^ly power, alas ! I doubt. 

In the first scene with Angelo she seems divided 
between her love for her brother and her sense of 
his fault ; between her self-respect and her maid- 
enly bashfulness. She begins with a kind of hesi- 
tation " at war 'twixt will and will not : " and when 
Angelo quotes the law, and insists on the justice of 



86 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

his sentence, and the responsibility of his station, 
her native sense of moral rectitude and severe 
principles takes the lead, and she shrinks back : — 

just, but severe law ! 
I liad a brother then — Heaven keep your honor ! 

{Retiring.) 

Excited and encouraged by Lucio, and sup- 
ported by her own natural spirit, she returns to 
the charge, — she gains energy and self-possession 
as she proceeds, grows more earnest and passionate 
from the difficulty she encounters, and displays 
that eloquence and power of reasoning for which 
we had been already prepared by Claudlo's first 
allusion to her : — 

In her youth 

There is a prone and speechless dialect, 
Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art, 
When she will play with reason and discourse, 
And well she can persuade. 

It is a curious coincidence that Isabella, exhort- 
ing Angelo to mercy, avails herself of precisely the 
same arguments, and Insists on the self-same topics 
■which Portia addresses to Shylock in her celebrated 
speech ; but how beautifully and how truly is the 
distinction marked ! how like, and yet how unlike ! 
Portia's eulogy on mercy is a piece of heavenly 
rhetoric ; it falls on the ear with a solenm meas- 
ured harmony ; it is the voice of a descended angel 
addressing an inferior nature : if not premeditated, 
it is at least part of a preconcerted scheme ; while 
Isabella's pleadings are poured from the abundance 



ISABELLA. 87 

of her heart in broken sentences, and with the art- 
less vehemence of one who feels that life and death 
hang upon her appeal. Tliis will be best under- 
stood by placing the corresponding passages in 
immediate comparison with each other. 

PORTIA. 

The quality of mercy is not strain' d, 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, 
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in tlie mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway — 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 

ISABELLA. 

Well, believe this, 
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs. 
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal's tmncheon, nor the judge's robe. 
Become them -with one half so good a grace 
. As mercy does. 

POKTIA. 

Consider this — 
That in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

ISABELLA. 

Alas! alas! 
Wliy all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 



88 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

And He, that might the 'vantage best have took, 
Found out the remedy. How would you be, 
If He, whicli is the top of judgment, should 
But judge you as you are ? 0, think on that, 
And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
Like man new made ! 

The beautiful things which Isabella Is made to 
utter, have, like the sayings of Portia, become 
proverbial ; but In spirit and character they are as 
distinct as are the two women. In all that Portia 
says, we confess the power of a rich poetical Imag- 
ination, blended with a quick practical spirit of 
observation, familiar with the surfaces of things; 
while there is a profound yet simple morality, a 
depth of religious feeling, a touch of melancholy, in 
Isabella's sentiments, and something earnest and 
authoritative in the manner and expression, as 
though they had grown up in her mind from long 
and deep meditation in the silence and solitude of" 
her convent cell : — 

0' it is excellent 
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 

Could great men thunder, 
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet: 
For every pelting, petty officer 

Would use his heaven for thunder ; nothing but thunder. 
Merciful Heaven ! 

Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt 
Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
Than the soft myrtle. but man, proud man ! 



ISABELLA. 89 

Drost in a little brief authority, 

Most ignorant of what he's most assured, 

His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 

As make the angels Aveep. 

Great men may jest with saints, 'tis wit in them; 
But in the less, foul profanation. 
That in the captain's but a choleric word. 
Which iu the soldier is flat blasphemy. 

Authority, although it eiT like others, 

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself 

That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom ; 

Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 

That's like my brother's fault: if it confess 

A natui'al guiltiness such as his is. 

Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 

Against my brother's life. 

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, 
But graciously to know I am no better. 

The sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
And the poor beetle that we tread upon. 
In coi-poral sufferance finds a pang as great 
As when a giant dies ! 

'Tis not impossible 
But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, 
j\Iay seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute 
As Angelo; even so may Angelo, 
In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms. 
Be an arch villain. 

Her fine powers of reasoning, and that natural 



90 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

uprightness and purity wlilcli no sopliistry can 
warp, and no allurement betray, are farther dis- 
played in the second scene with Angelo. 

ANGELO. 

What would you do ? 

ISABELLA. 

As much for my poor brother as myself; 

That is, were I under the temis of death, 

The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies, 

And strip myself to death as to a bed 

That, longing, I have been sick for, ere I'd yield 

My body up to shame. 

ANGELO. 

Then must your brother die. 

ISABELLA. 

And 'twere the cheaper way; 
Better it were a brother died at once, 
Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 
Should die forever. 

ANGELO. 

Were you not then cruel as the sentence. 
That you have slander' d so! 

ISABELLA. 

Ignominy in ransom, and free pardon, 
Are of two houses : lawful mercy is 
Nothing akin to foul redemption. 

ANGELO. 

You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; 



ISABELLA. 91 

And rrther proved the sliding of your brother 
A memment than a vice. 

ISABELLA. 

pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, 

To have what we'd have, we speak not what we mean: 

1 something do exciise the thing I hate, 
For his advantage that I dearly love. 

Towards the conclusion of the play we have 
another instance of that rigid sense of justice, 
which is a prominent part of Isabella's character, 
and almost silences her earnest intercession for her 
brother, when his fault is placed between her plea 
and her conscience. The Duke condemns the ^nl- 
lain Angelo to death, and his wife Mariana entreats 
Isabella to plead for him. 

Sweet Isabel, take my part. 
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come 
I'U lend you aU my life to do you service. 

Isabella remains silent, and Mariana reiterates 
her prayer. 

• MARIANA. 

Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me. 

Hold up your hands, say nothing, I'll speak all! 

Isabel ! will you not lend a knee ? 

Isabella, thus urged, breaks silence and appeals 
to the Duke, not with supphcatlon, or persuasion, 
but with grave argument, and a kind of dignified 
humility and conscious power, which are finely 
characteristic of the individual woman. 



92 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

Most bounteous Sir, 
Look, if it please you, on this man condemn' d, 
As if my brother liv'd; I partly think 
A due sincerity govern'dhis deeds 
Till he did look on me ; since it is so 
Let him not die. Mj brother had but justice, 
In that he did the thing for which he died. 
For Angelo, 

His art did not o'ertake his bad intent. 
That perish' d by the way: thoughts ai-e no subjects, 
Intents, but merely thoughts. 

In tliis Instance, as in the one before mentioned, 
Isabella's conscientiousness is overcome by the only 
sentiment which ought to temper justice into mercy, 
the power of affection and sympathy. 

Isabella's confession of the general frailty of her 
sex, has a peculiar softness, beauty, and propriety. 
She admits the imputation with all the sympathy 
of woman for woman ; yet with all the dignity of 
one who felt her own superiority to the weakness 
she acknowledges. 

ANGELO. 

Nay, women are frail too. 

ISABELLA. 

Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves ; 
Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 
Women ! help heaven ! men their creation mar 
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail ; 
For we are soft as our complexions are, 
And credulous to false prints. 

Nor should we fail to remark the deeper interest 



ISABELLA. 93 

which is thrown round Isabella, by one part of her 
character, which is betrayed rather than exhibited 
in the progress of the action ; and for which we are 
not at first prepared, though it is so perfectly nat- 
ural. It is the strong under-current of passion and 
enthusiasm flowing beneath this calm and saintly 
self-possession ; it is the capacity for high feeling 
and g(i^erous and strong indignation, veiled beneath 
the sweet austere composure of the religious re- 
cluse, which, by the very force of contrast, power- 
fully impress the imagination. As we see in real 
life that where, from some external or habitual 
cause, a strong control is exercised over naturally 
C[ulck feelings and an impetuous temper, they dis- 
play themselves with a proportionate vehemence 
when that restraint is removed ; so the very vio- 
lence with which her passions burst forth, when op- 
posed or under the influence .of strong excitement, 
is admirably characteristic. 

Thus in her exclamation, when she first allows 
herself to perceive Angclo's vile design — 

ISABELLA. 

Ha! little honor to be much believed, 

And most pernicious purpose! — seeming! — seeming! 

I -n-ill proclaim thee, Angelo: lools. for it! 

Sign me a present pardon for my brother, 

Or with an outstretched throat I'll tell the world 

Aloud, what man thou art ! 

And again, where she finds that the " outward 
sainted deputy," has deceived her — 



94 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

I will to him, and pluck out his eyes ! 
Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel! 
Injurious world ! most damned Ajigelo ! 

Slie places at first a strong and higli-souled con- 
fidence in her brother's fortitude and magnanimity, 
judging him by her own lofty spirit : 

I'll to my brother; 
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood, 
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honor, 
That had he twenty heads to tender down, 
On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up 
Before his sister should her body stoop 
To such abhorr'd pollution. 

But when her trust in his honor is deceived by 
his momentary weakness, her scorn has a bitter- 
ness, and her indignation a force of expression al- 
most fearful ; and both are carried to an exti-eme, 
which is perfectly in character : 

faithless coward ! dishonest Avretch ! : 

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 

Is't not a kind of incest to take life 

From thine own sister's shame? What should I think? 

Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fair! 

For such a wai'ped slip of wilderness 

Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance; 

Die ! perish ! might but my bending down, 

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed. 

I'll pray a thousand prayers for th}'- death, 

No word to save thee. 



ISABELLA. 95 

The whole of this scene with Claudio is inexpres- 
sibly grand in the poetry and the sentiment ; and 
the entire play abounds in those passages and 
phrases which must have become trite from famiUar 
and constant use and abuse, if their wisdom and 
unequalled beauty did not invest them with an im- 
mortal freshness and vigor, and a perpetual charm. 

The story of Measure for Measure is a tradition 
of great antiquity, of which there are several ver- 
sions, narrative and dramatic. A contemptible 
tragedy, the Promos and Cassandra of George 
Whetstone, is supposed, from various coincidences, 
to have fur»ished Shakspeare with the groundwork 
of the play ; but the character of Isabella is, in con- 
ception and execution, all his own. The commen- 
tators have collected with infinite industry all the 
sources of the plot ; but to the grand creation of 
Isabella, they award either silence or worse than 
silence. Johnson and the rest of the black-letter 
crew, pass over her without a word. One critic, a 
lady-critic too, whose name I will be so merciful as 
to suppress, treats Isabella as a coarse vixen. Haz- 
^itt, with that strange perversion of sentiment and 
want of taste which sometimes mingle with his 
piercing and powerful intellect, dismisses Isabella 
with a slight remark, that "we are not greatly 
enamoured of her rigid chastity, nor can feel much 
confidence in the virtue that is sublimely good at 
another's expense." AYhat shall we answer to such 
ciiticism ? Upon what ground can we read the 
play from beginning to end, and doubt the angel- 



06 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

purity of Isabella, or contemplate her possible lapse 
from virtue ? Such gratuitous mistrust is liere a 
sin against the light of heaven. 

Having waste ground enough, 

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, 

And pitch our evils there ? 

Professor Richardson is more just, and truly 
sums up her character as " amiable, pious, sen- 
sible, resolute, determined, and eloquent : " but his 
remarks are rather superficial. 

Schlegel's observations are also brief and gen- 
eral, and in no way distinguish Isabella from many 
other characters ; neither did his plan allow him to 
be more minute. Of the play altogether, he ob- 
serves very beautifully, " that the title Measure for 
Measure is in reahty a misnomer, the sense of the 
whole being properly the triumph of mercy over 
strict justice : " but it is also true that there is " an 
original sin in the nature of the subject, which 
prevents us from taking a cordial interest in it." * 
Of all the characters, Isabella alone has our sym- 
pathy. But though she triumphs in the conclusion, 
her trimnph is not produced in a pleasing manner. 
There are too many disguises and tricks, too many 
"by-paths and indirect crooked ways," to conduct 
us to the natural and foreseen catastrophe, which 
the Duke's presence throughout renders inevitable. 
This Duke seems to have a predilection for bring- 
ing about justice by a most unjustifiable succession 

* Characters of Sbakspeare's Plays. 



ISABELLA. 97 

of falsehoods and countei-plots. He really deserves 
Lucio's satirical designation, who somewhere styles 
him "The Fantastical Duke of Dark Corners." 
But Isabella is ever consistent in her pure and up- 
right simphcity, and in the midst of this sunulation, 
expresses a characteristic disapprobation of the 
part she is made to play, 

To speak so indirectly I am loth: 

I would say the truth.* 
She yields to the supposed Friar with a kind of 
forced docility, because her situation as a religious 
novice, and his station, habit, and authority, as her 
spiritual director, demand this sacrifice. In the 
end we are made to feel that her transition from 
the convent to the throne has but placed this noble 
creature in her natural sphere : for though Isabella, 
as Duchess of Vienna, could not more command 
our highest reverence than Isabella, the novice of 
Saint Clare, yet a wider range of usefulness and 
benevolence, of trial and action, was better suited 
to the large capacity, the ardent affections, the 
energetic intellect, and firm principle of such a 
woman as Isabella, than the walls of a cloister. 
The philosophical Duke observes in the very fii-st 

scene — 

Spirits are not finely touched. 
But to fine issues : nor nature never lends 
The smallest scruple of her excellence. 
But like a thrifty goddess she determines, 
Herself the glory of a creditor, 
Both thanks and use.f 

♦ Act iv. Scend 5. t Vse, i. e. usury, interest. 

7 



98 CHARACTERS OP INTELLECT. 

This profound and beautiful sentiment is illus- 
b'ated in the character and destiny of Isabella. 
She says, of herself, that " she has spirit to act 
■whatever her heart approves ; " and what her heart 
approves we know. 

In the convent, (which may stand here poetically 
for any narrow and obscure situation in which 
such a woman might be placed,) Isabella would 
not have been unhappy, but happiness would have 
been tlie result of an effort, or of the concentration 
of her great mental powers to some particular pur- 
pose; as St. Theresa's intellect, enthusiasm, ten- 
derness, restless activity, and burning eloquence, 
governed by one overpowering sentiment of devo- 
tion, rendered her the most extraordinary of saints. 
Isabella, like St. Theresa, complains that the rules 
of her order are not sufficiently severe, and from 
the same cause, — that from the consciousness of 
strong intellectual ^nd imaginative power, and of 
overflowing sensibihty, she desires a more " strict 
restraint," or, from the continual, involuntary 
struggle against the trammels imposed, feels its 
necessity. 

ISABELLA. 

And have you nuns no further privileges ? 

FRANCISCA. 

Are not these large enough ? 

ISABELLA. 

Yes, truly; I speak, not as desiring more, 
But rather wishing a more strict restraint 
Upon the sisterhood ! 



BEATRICE. 99 

Such women as Desdemona and Ophelia would 
have passed their lives in the seclusion of a nun- 
nery, without wishing, like Isabella, for stricter 
bonds, or planning, like St. Theresa, the reforma- 
tion of their order, simply, because any restraint 
would have been efficient, as far as they were con- 
cerned. Isabella, " dedicate to nothing temporal," 
might have found resignation through self govern- 
ment, or have become a religious enthusiast : while 
" place and greatness " would have appeared to her 
strong and upright mind, only a more extended 
field of action, a trust and a trial. The mere trap- 
pings of power and state, the gemmed coronal, the 
ermined robe, she would have regarded as the out- 
ward emblems of her earthly profession ; and would 
have worn them with as much simplicity as her 
novice's hood and scapular ; still, under whatever 
guise she might tread this thorny world — the same 
" annrel of liirht." 



BEATRICE. 

Shakspeare has exhibited in Beatrice a spir- 
ited and faithful portrait of the fine lady of his 
own time. The deportment, language, manners, and 
allusions, are those of a particular class in a partic- 
ular age; but the individual and dramatic char- 
acter which forms the groundwork, is strongly 



100 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

discriminated ; and being taken from general na- 
ture, belongs to every age. In Beatrice, high 
intellect and high animal spirits meet, and excite 
each other like fire and air. In her wit (which is 
brilliant without being imaginative) there is a 
touch of insolence, not unfrequent in women when 
the wit predominates over reflection and imagina- 
tion. In her temper, too, there is a slight infusion 
of the termagant; and her satirical humor plays 
with such an unrespective levity'over all subjects 
ahke, that it required a profound knowledge of 
women to bring such a character within the pale 
of our sympathy. But Beatrice, though wilful, is 
not wayward ; she is volatile, not unfeeling. She 
has not only an exuberance of wit and gayety, but 
of heart, and soul, and energy of spirit ; and is no 
more like the fine ladies of modern comedy, — 
whose wit consists in a temporary allusion, or a 
play upon words, and whose petulance is displayed 
in a toss of the head, a flirt of the fan, or a flour- 
ish of the pocket handkerchief, — ^than one of our 
modern dandies is Uke Sir PhiHp Sydney. 

In Beatrice, Shakspeare has contrived that the 
poetry of the character shall not only soften, but 
heighten its comic effect. We are not only in- 
clined to forgive Beatrice all her scornful airs, all 
her biting jests, all her assumption of superiority ; 
but they amuse and delight us the more, when we 
find her, with all the headlong simplicity of a child, 
falling at once into the snare laid for her affec- 
tions ; when we see her, who thought a man of 



BEATRICE. 101 

God's making not good enough for her, who dis- 
dained to be o'ermastered by " a piece of valiant 
dust," stooping like the rest of her sex, vailing her 
proud spirit, and taming her wild heart to the lov- 
ing hand of him whom she had scorned, flouted, 
and misused, "past the endurance of a block." 
And we are yet more completely won by her gen- 
erous enthusiastic attachment to her cousin. "When 
the father of Hero believes the tale of her guilt; 
when Claudio, her lover, without remorse or a lin- 
gering doubt, consigns her to shame; when the 
Friar remains silent, and the generous Benedick 
himself knows not what to say, Beatrice, confident 
in her affections, and guided only by the impulses 
of her own feminine heart, sees through the incon- 
sistency, the impossibility of the charge, and ex- 
claims, without a moment's hesitation, 

0, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! 

Schlegel, in his remarks on the play of " Much 
Ado about nothing," has given us an amusing in- 
stance of that sense of reality with which we are 
impressed by Shakspeare's characters. He says of 
Benedick and Beatrice, as if he had known them 
personally, that the exclusive direction of their 
pointed raillery against each other " is a proof of a 
growing inclination." Tliis is not unlikely; and 
the same inference would lead us to suppose that 
this mutual incHnatlon had commenced before the 
opening of the play. The very first words uttered 
by Beatrice are an Inquiry after Benedick, though 
expressed with her usual arch impertinence : — 



102 . CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the 
•wars, or no ? 

I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in 
these wars ? But how many hath he killed '? for indeed I 
promised to eat all of his killing. 

And in the unprovoked hostility with, which she 
falls upon him in his absence, in the pertinacity 
and bitterness of her satire, there is certainly great 
argument that he occupies much more of her 
thoughts than she would have been willing to con- 
fess, even to herself. In the same manner Bene- 
dick betrays a lurking partiality for his fascinating 
enemy ; he shows that he has looked upon her 
with no careless eye, when he says, 

There's her cousin, (meaning Beatrice,) an' she were 
not possessed with a fury, excels her as much in beauty 
as the fii'st of May does the last of December. 

Infinite skill, as well as humor, is shown in mak- 
ing this pair of airy beings the exact counterpart 
of each other; but of the two portraits, that of 
Benedick is by far the most pleasing, because the 
independence and gay indifference of temper, the 
laughing defiance of love and marriage, the satirical 
freedom of expression, common to both, are more 
becoming to the masculine than to the feminine 
character. Any woman might love such a cavalier 
as Benedick, and be proud of his affection ; his 
valor, his wit, and his gayety sit so gracefully upon 
him ! and his light scoffs against the poAver of love 
are but just sufficient to render more piquant the 
conquest of this " heretic in despite of beauty.** 



BEATRICE. 103 

But a man mlglit -well be pardoned who sliould 
shrink from encountering such a spirit as that of 
Beatrice, unless, indeed, he had " served an ap- 
prenticeship to the taming schooL" The wit of 
Beatrice is less good-humored than that of Bene- 
dick ; or, from the difference of sex, appears so. 
It is observable that the power is throughout on 
her side, and the sympathy and interest on his : 
wliich, by reversing the usual order of things, 
seems to excite us against the grain, if I may use 
such an expression. In all their encounters she 
constantly gets the better of him, and the gentle- 
man's wits go off halting, if he is not himself fairly 
Jiors de combat. Beatrice, woman-like, generally 
has the first word, and will have the last. Thus, 
when they first meet, she begins by provoking the 
merry warfare : — 

I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Bene- 
dick ; nobody marks you. 

BENEDICK. 

What, ray dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? 

BEATRICE. 

Is it possible Disdain should die, while she hath such 
meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy 
itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her pres- 
ence. 

It is clear that she cannot for a moment endure 
his neglect, and he can as Httle tolerate her scorn. 
Nothing that Benedick addresses to Beatrice per- 



104 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

sonally can equal the malicious force of some of 
her attacks upon him : he is either restrained by a 
feeling of natural gallantry, little as she deserves 
the consideration due to her sex, (for a female 
satirist ever places herself beyond the pale of such 
forbearance,) or he is subdued by her superior 
volubility. He revenges himself, however, in her 
absence: he abuses her with such a variety of 
comic invective, and pours forth his pent-up wrath 
with such a ludicrous extravagance and exaggera- 
tion, that he betrays at once how deep is his morti- 
fication, and hoAv unreal his enmity. 

In the midst of all this tilting and sparring of 
their nimble and j&ery wits, we find them infinitely 
anxious for the good opinion of each other, and 
secretly impatient of each other's scorn : but Bea- 
ta-ice is the most truly indifferent of the two ; the 
most assured of herself The comic effect pro- 
duced by their mutual attachment, which, however 
natural and expected, comes upon us with all the 
force of a surprise, cannot be surpassed : and how 
exquisitely characteristic the mutual avowal ! 



BENEDICK. 

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. 

BEATRICE. 

Do not swear by it, and eat it. 

BENEDICK. 

I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make 
bim eat it, that says, I love not you. 



BEATRICE. 105 

BEATRICE. 

Will you not eat your word ? 

BENEDICK. 

With no sauce that can be devised to it : I protest, I 
love thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Why, then, God forgive me ! 

BENEDICK. 

AVhat offence, sweet Beatrice ? 

BEATRICE. 

You stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to pro- 
test, I loved you. 

BENEDICK. 

And do it with all thy heart. 

BEATRICE. 

I love you with so much of my heart, that there is 
none left to protest. 

But here again the dominion rests with Beatrice, 
and she appears in a less amiable light than her 
lover. Benedick surrenders his whole heart to her 
and to his new passion. The revulsion of feeling 
even causes it to overflow in an excess of fond- 
ness ; but with Beatrice temper has still the mas- 
tery. The affection of Benedick induces him to 
challenge his intimate friend for her sake, but the 
affection of Beatrice does not prevent her from 
risking the life of her lover. 

The character of Hero is well contrasted with 
that of Beatrice, and their mutual attachment is 



106 CHARACTEUS OF INTELLECT. 

very beautiful and natural. When they are both 
on the scene together, Hero has but little to say 
for herself: Beatrice asserts the rule of a master 
spirit, eclipses her by her mental superiority, 
abashes her by her raillery, dictates to her, an- 
swers for her, and would fain inspire her gentle- 
hearted cousin with some of her own assurance. 

Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsey, 
and say, "Father, as it please you;" but yet, for all 
that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make 
another curtsey, and, " Father, as it please me." 

But Shakspeare knew well how to make one char- 
acter subordinate to another, without sacrificing 
the shghtest portion of its effect ; and Hero, added 
to her grace and softness, and all the interest which 
attaches to her as the sentimental heroine of the 
play, possesses an intellectual beauty of her own. 
When she has Beatrice at an advantage, she re- 
pays her with interest, in the severe, but most 
animated and elegant picture she draws of her 
cousin's imperious character and unbridled levity 
of tongue. The portrait is a httle overcharged, 
because administered as a corrective, and intended 
to be overheard. 

But nature never fram'd a woman's heart 
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
Misprising what they look on ; and her wit 
Values itself so highly, that to her . 
All matter else seems weak ; she cannot love, 
Nor take no shape nor project of affection. 
She is so self-endeai-ed. 



BEATKICE, 107 

URSULA. 

Siu'e, sure, such carping is not commendable. 

HERO. 

No: not to be so odd, and from all fashions, 
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable: 
But who dare tell her soV If I should speak, 
She'd mock me into air: she would laugh me 
Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 
Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire. 
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: 
It were a better death than die with mocks, 
Which is as bad as die with tickling. 

Beatrice never appears to greater advantage 
than in her soliloquy after leaving her conceal- 
ment " in the pleached bower where honeysuckles, 
ripened by the sun, forbid the sun to enter ; " she 
exclaims, after listening to this tirade against her- 
self,— 

"Wliat fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ? 

Stand 1 condemned for pride and scorn so much ? 
The sense of wounded vanity is lost in bitter feel- 
ings, and she is infinitely more struck by what is 
said in praise of Benedick, and the history of his 
supposed love for her than by the dispraise of her- 
self. The immediate success of the trick is a most 
natural consequence of the self-assurance and mag- 
nanimity of her character ; she is so accustomed to 
assert dominion over the spirits of others, that she 
cannot suspect the possibility of a plot laid against 
herself. 

A haughty, excitable, and violent temper is an- 



108 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

other of the characteristics of Beatrice ; but there 
is more of impulse than of passion in her vehe- 
mence. In the marriage scene where she has be- 
held her gentle-sjDlrited cousin, — whom she loves 
the more for those very qualities which are most 
unlike her own, — slandered, deserted, and devoted 
to public shame, her indignation, and the eager- 
ness with which she hungers and thirsts after 
revenge, are, Hke the rest of her character, open, 
ardent, impetuous, but not deep or implacable. 
When she bursts into that outrageous speech — 

Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath 
slandei-ed, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman ? that 
I were a man ! What ! bear lier in hand until they come 
to take hands; and tlien, with public accusation, uncov- 
ered slander, unmitigated rancor — God, that I were a 
man ! I would eat his heart in the market-place ! 

And when she commands her lover, as the first 
proof of his affection, " to kill Claudio," the very 
consciousness of the exaggeration, — of the contrast 
between the real good-nature of Beatrice and the 
fierce tenor of her language, keeps alive the comic 
effect, mingling the ludicrous with the serious. It 
is remarkable that, notwithstanding the point and 
vivacity of the dialogue, few of the speeches of 
Beatrice are capable of a general application, or 
engrave themselves distinctly on the memory ; they 
contain more mirth than matter ; and though wit 
be the predominant feature in the dramatic por- 
trait, Beatrice more charms and dazzles us by what 
she is than by what she says. It is not merely her 



BEATRICE. 109 

sparkling repartees and saucy jests, it is the soul 
of wit, and the spirit of gaycty in forming the whole 
character, — looking out from her brilliant eyes, and 
laughing on her full lips that pout with scorn, — 
which we have before us, moving and full of life. 
On the whole, we dismiss Benedick and Beatrice 
to their matrimonial bonds rather with a sense of 
amusement than a feeling of congratulation or sym- 
pathy ; rather with an acknowledgment that they 
are well-matched, and worthy of each other than 
with any well-founded expectation of their domes- 
tic tranquillity. If, as Benedick assei-ts, they are 
both " too wise to woo peaceably," it may be added 
that both are too wise, too witty, and too wilful to 
live peaceably together. We have some misgiv- 
ings about Beatrice — some apprehensions that 
poor Benedick will not escape the " predestinated 
scratched face," which he had foretold to him who 
should win and wear this quick-witted and pleasant- 
spirited lady; yet when we recollect that to the 
wit and imperious temper of Beatrice is united a 
magnanimity of spirit which would naturally place 
her far above all selfishness, and all paltry strug- 
gles for power — when we perceive, in the midst of 
her sarcastic levity and volubility of tongue, so 
much of generous aifection, and such a high sense 
of female virtue and honor, we are inclined to hope 
the best. We think it possible that though the 
gentleman may now and then swear, and the lady 
scold, the native good-humor of the one, the really 
fine understandino; of the other, and the value 



110 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

they so evidently attach to each other's esteem, 
wfil ensure them a tolerable portion of domestic 
feHcity, and in this hope we leave them. 



^t^^ 



ROSALIND. 

I COME now to Rosalind, whom I should have 
ranked before Beatrice, inasmuch as the greater 
degree of her sex's softness and sensibility, united 
with equal wit and intellect, give her the superiority 
as a woman ; but that, as a dramatic character, she 
is inferior in force. The portrait is one of infinitely 
more delicacy and variety, but of less strength and 
depth. It is easy to seize on the prominent feat- 
ures in the mind of Beatrice, but extremely diffi- 
cult to catch and fix the more fanciful graces of 
Rosalind. She is like a compound of essences, so 
volatile in their nature, and so exquisitely blended, 
that on any attempt to analyze them, they seem to 
escape us. To what else shall we compare her, 
all-enchanting as she is ? — to the silvery summer 
clouds which, even while we gaze on them, shift 
their hues and forms dissolving into air, and light, 
and rainbow showers ? — to the May-morning, flush 
with opening blossoms and roseate dews, and 
" charm of earhest birds ? " — to some wild and 
beautiful melody, such as some shepherd boy 



ROSALIND. Ill 

miglit " pipe to Amarillls in tlie sliade ? " — to a 
mountain streamlet, now smooth as a mirror in 
which the skies may glass themselves, and anon 
leaping and sparkling in the sunshine — or rather 
to the very sunshine itself? for so her genial spirit 
touches into life and beauty whatever it shines on ! 
But this impression, though produced by the 
complete development of the character, and in 
the end possessing the whole fancy, is not imme- 
diate. The first introduction of Rosalind is less 
striking than interesting ; we see her a dependant, 
almost a captive, in the house of her usurping 
uncle; her genial spirits are subdued by her situa- 
tion, and the remembrance of her banished father : 
her playfulness is under a temporary eclipse. 

I pray thee, Eosalind, sweet my coz, be merry ! 

is an adjuration which Rosalind needed not when 
once at liberty, and sporting " under the green- 
wood tree." The sensibihty and even pensiveness 
of her demeanor in the first instance, render her 
archness and gayety afterwards, more graceful and 
more fascinating. 

Though Rosalind is a princess, she is a princess 
of Arcady; and notwithstanding the charming 
effect produced by her first scenes, we scarcely 
ever think of her with a reference to them, or 
associate her with a court, and the artificial append- 
ages of her rank. She was not made to " lord it 
o'er a fair mansion," and take state upon her like 
the all-accomplished Portia ; but to breathe the free 



112 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

air of heaven, and frolic among green leaves. Slie 
was not made to stand the siege of daring profli- 
gacy, and oppose high action and high passion 
to the assaults of adverse fortune, hke Isabel ; but 
to " fleet the time carelessly as they did i' the 
golden age." She was not made to bandy wit with 
lords, and tread courtly measures with plumed and 
warlike cavaliers, like Beatrice ; but to dance on 
the green sward, and "murmur among living 
brooks a music sweeter than their own." 

Though sprightliness is the distinguishing charac- 
teristic of Rosalind, as of Beatrice, yet we find her 
much more nearly allied to Portia in temper and 
intellect. The tone of her mind is, like Portia's, 
genial and buoyant : she has something, too, of her 
softness and sentiment ; there is the same confiding 
abandonment of self in her affections; but the 
characters are otherwise as distinct as the situa- 
tions are dissimilar. The age, the manners, the 
circumstance in which Shakspeare has placed his 
Portia, are not bej'^ond the bounds of probability ; 
nay, have a certain reality and locality. We 
fancy her a contemporary of the Raffaelles and the 
Ariostos; the sea-wedded Venice, its merchants 
and Magnificos, — the Bialto, and the long canals, — 
rise up before us when we think of her. But Rosa- 
lind is surrounded with the purely ideal and imag- 
inative ; the reality is in tlie characters and in the 
sentiments, not in the circumstances or situation. 
Portia is dignified, splendid, and romantic ; Rosa- 
lind is playful, pastoral, and picturesque : both are 



ROSALIND. 113 

in the highest degree poetical, but the one is epic 
and the other lyric. 

Every thing about Rosalind breathes of " youth 
and youth's sweet prime." She is fresh as the 
morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms, 
and light as the breeze that plays among them. 
She is as witty, as voluble, as sprightly as Bea- 
trice; but in a style altogether distinct. In 
both, the wit is equally unconscious; but in Bea- 
trice it plays about us like the lightning, dazzling 
but also alarming ; while the wit of Rosalind bub- 
bles up and sparkles like the living fountain, re- 
freshing all around. Her volubiUty is like the 
bird's song ; it is the outpouring of a heart filled to 
overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet 
and afiectionate impulses. She has as much ten- 
derness as mirth, and in her most petulant raillery 
there is a touch of softness — " By this hand, it will 
not hurt a fly ! " As her vivacity never lessens 
our impression of her sensibility, so she wears her 
masculine attire without the slightest impugnment 
of her dehcacy. Shakspeare did not make the 
modesty of his women depend on their dress, as 
we shall see further when we come to Viola and 
Imogen. Rosalind has in truth " no doublet and 
hose in her disposition." How her heart seems to 
throb and flutter under her page's vest! What 
depth of love in her passion for Orlando ! whether 
disguised beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking 
forth with a fond impatience, or half betrayed in 
that beautiful scene where she faints at the sight 



114 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

of his 'kerchief stained with his blood ! Here her 
recovery of her self-possession — her fears lest she 
should have revealed her sex — her presence of 
mind, and quick-witted excuse — 

I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited — 

and the characteristic playfulness which seems to 
return so naturally with her recovered senses, — 
are all as amusing as consistent. Then how beauti- 
fully is the dialogue managed between herself and 
Orlando ! how well she assumes the airs of a saucy 
page, without throwing off her feminine sweetness ! 
How her wit flutters free as air over every sub- 
ject ! With what a careless grace, yet with what 
exquisite propriety ! 

For innocence hath a privilege in her 
To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes. 

And if the freedom of some of the expressions 
used by Rosalind or Beatrice be objected to, let 
it be remembered that this was not the fault of 
Shakspeare or the women, but generally of the 
age. Portia, Beatrice, Rosalind, and the rest, 
lived in times when more importance was attached 
to things than to words; now we think more of 
words than of things ; and happy are we in these 
later days of super-refinement, if we are to be 
saved by our verbal morality. But this is med- 
dling with the province of the melancholy Jaques, 
and our argument is Rosalind. 

The impression left upon our hearts and minda 



ROSALIXD. 115 

by the character of Rosalind — by the mixture 
of playfulness, sensibility, and what the French 
(and we for lack of a better expression) call nai- 
vete — is like a delicious strain of music. There is 
a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to ex- 
press that dehght, which is enchanting. Yet when 
we call to mind particular speeches and passages, 
we find that they have a relative beauty and pro- 
priety, which renders it difficult to separate them 
from the context without injuring their efiect. 
She says some of the most charming things in the 
world, and some of the most humorous : but we 
apply them as pkrases rather than as maxims, and 
remember them rather for their pointed felicity of 
expression and fanciful application, than for their 
general truth and depth of meaning. I will give a 
few instances : — 

I was never so bc-rhymed since Pythagoras' time — ^that 
I was an Iinsh rat — which I can hardly remember.* 

Good, my complexion ! Dost thou think, thougli I am 
caparisoned like a man, that I have a doublet and hoso 
in my disposition ? 

We dwell here in the skirts of the forest, like Muge 
upon a petticoat. 

* In Sbakspeare's time, there were people in Ireland, (there 
may be so still, for aught I know,) who undertook to charm ratd 
to death, by chanting certain Terses which acted as a spell. 
"Rhyme them to death, as they do rats in Ireland," is a lino 
in one of Ben Jonson's comedies ; this will explain Rosalind'8 
humorous allusion. 



116 CHARACTERS OF INTELLECT. 

Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, deserves as 
well a dark house and a whip as madmen do ; and the 
reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that 
the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love 
too. 

A traveller ! By my faith you have great reason to be 
sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other 
men's; then to have seen much and to have nothing, is to 
have rich eyes and poor hands. 

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and 
wear strange suits ; disable all the benefits of your own 
country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost 
chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or 
I wiU scarce think you have swam in a gondola. 

Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide 
a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of 
the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it 
may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' the 
shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole. 

Men have died from time to time, and worms have 
eaten them — ^but not for love. 

I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's appai-el, 
and to cry like a woman ; but I must comfort the weaker 
vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself coura- 
geous to petticoat. 

Rosalind has not the impressive eloquence of 
Portia, nor the sweet wisdom of Isabella. Her 
longest speeches are not her best ; nor is her taunt- 
ing address to Phebe, beautiful and celebrated as 



ROSALIND. 117 

it is, equal to Phebe's own description of her. Tlie 
latter, indeed, is more in earnest.* 

Celia is more quiet and retired : but she rather 
yields to Rosalind, than is eclipsed by her. She is 
as full of sweetness, kindness, and intelligence, 
quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though 
she makes less display of wit. ^he is described as 
less fair and less gifted ; yet the attempt to excite 
in her mind a jealousy of her loveUer friend, by 
placing them in comparison — 

Thou art a fool ; slie robs thee of thy name ; 

And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous, 

When she is gone — 

fails to awaken in the generous heart of Celia any 
other feeling than an increased tenderness and 
sympathy for her cousin. To Celia, Shakspeare 
has given some of the most striking and animated 
parts of the dialogue ; and in particular, that ex- 
quisite description of the friendship between her 
and Rosalind — 

If she be a traitor. 
Why, so am I ; we have still slept together, 
Kose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, 
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans. 
Still Ave were coupled and inseparable. 

* Rousseau could describe such a character as Rosalind, but 
failed to represent it consistently. " N'est-ce pas dc ton coeur 
que viennent Ics graces de ton eujouement? Tes railleries sent 
des signes d'interet plus touchauts que les compliments d'un 
autre. Tu caresses quand tu folutres. Tu ris, mais ton rire 
p6n6tre I'aane ; tu ris, mais tu fais pleurer de tendresse. et je te 
vois presque toujours s6rieuse avec les indiff^rents." — Heloise. 



118 --X!HARACTEIIS OP INTELLECT. 

The feeling of interest and admiration thus ex- 
cited for Cella at the first, follows her through the 
whole play. We listen to her as to one who has 
made herself worthy of our love ; and her silence 
expresses more than eloquence. 

Phebe is quite an Arcadian coquette ; she is a 
piece of pastoral poetry. Audrey is only rustic. 
A very amusing effect is produced by the contrast 
between the frank and free bearing of the two 
princesses in disguise, and the scornful airs of the 
real Shepherdess. In the speeches of Phebe, and 
in the dialogue between her and Sylvius, Shak- 
speare has anticipated all the beauties of the Italian 
pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and Guarini. We 
find two among the most poetical passages of the 
play appropriated to Phebe ; the taunting speech 
to Sylvius, and the description of Rosahnd in her 
page's costume ; — which last is finer than the por- 
trait of BathyUus in Anacreon. 




CHARACTERS OF PASSION AND 
IMAGINATION. 



JULIET. . 

O Love ! thou teacher ! — O Grief! thou tamer 
— and Time, thou healer of human hearts ! — bring 
hither all your deep and serious revelations ! — And 
ye too, rich fancies of unbruised, unbowed youth — 
ye visions of long perished hopes — shadows of un- 
born joys — gay colorings of the dawn of existence ! 
whatever memory hath treasured up of bright and 
beautiful in nature or in art ; all soft and delicate 
images — all lovely forms — divinest voices and en- 
trancing melodies — gleams of sunnier skies and 
fairer climes, — Italian moonlights and airs that 
" breathe of the sweet south," — now, if it be pos- 
sible, revive to my imagination — live once more to 
my heart! Come, thronging around me, all inspi- 
rations that wait on passion, on power, on beauty ; 
give me to tread, not bold, and yet unblamed, 
within the inmost sanctuary of Shakspeare's genius, 
in Juliet's moonlight bower, and ]\Iiranda's en- 
chanted isle ! 



120 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

It Is not without emotion, that I attempt to touch 
on the character of Juliet. Such beautiful things 
have already been said of her — only to be exceeded 
in beauty by the subject that inspired them ! — It Is 
impossible to say any thing better ; but it is possible 
to say something more. Such in fact is the sim- 
plicity, the truth, and the loveliness of Juliet's 
character, that we are not at first aware of its com- 
plexity, its depth, and its variety. There is in it 
an intensity of passion, a singleness of purpose, an 
entireness, a completeness of effect, which we feel 
as a whole ; and to attempt to analyze the Impres- 
sion thus conveyed at once to soul and sense, is as 
if while hanging over a half-blown rose, and revel- 
ling in its intoxicating perfume, we should pull it 
asunder, leaflet by leaflet, the better to display Its 
bloom and fragrance. Yet how otherwise should 
we disclose the wonders of Its formation, or do 
justice to the skill of the divine hand that hath 
thus fashioned It in Its beauty ? 

Love, as a passion, forms the groundwork of the 
drama. Now, admitting the axiom of Rochefou- 
cauld, that there Is but one love, though a thousand 
different copies, yet the true sentiment Itself has as 
many different aspects as the human soul of which 
it forms a part. It is not only modified by the 
individual character and temperament, but it is 
under the Influence of climate and circumstance. 
The love that is calm in one moment, shall show 
itself vehement and tumultuous at another. The 
love that is wild and passionate in the south. Is deep 



JULIET. 121 

and contemplatiTe in the north ; as the Spanish or 
Eoman girl perhaps poisons a rival, or stabs herself 
for the sake of a living lover, and the German or 
Russian girl pines into the grave for love of the 
false, the absent, or the dead. Love is ardent or 
deep, bold or timid, jealous or confiding, impatient 
or humble, hopeful or desponding — and yet there 
are not many loves, but one love. 

All Shakspeare's women, being essentially 
women, either love or have loved, or are capable of 
loving ; but Juliet is love itself The passion is 
her state of being, and out of it she has no exist- 
ence. It is the soul within her soul; the pulse 
within her heart; the life-blood along her veins, 
" blending with every atom of her frame." The 
love that is so chaste and dignified in Portia — so 
airy-delicate and fearless in IMiranda — so sweetly 
confiding in Pcrdita — so playfully fond in Rosalind 
— so constant in Imogen — so devoted in Desde- 
mona — so fervent in Helen- — so tender in Viola, — 
is each and all of these in Juliet. All these remind 
us of her ; but she reminds us of nothing but her 
own sweet self; or if she does, it is of the Gismunda, 
or the Lisetta, or the Fiammetta of Boccaccio, to 
whom she is allied, not in the character or circum- 
stances, but in the truly Itahan spirit, the glowing, 
national complexion of the portrait.* 

* Lord Byron remarked of the Italian women, (and he could 
speak avec connaissance de /ait,) that they are the only women 
in the world capable of impressions, at once very sudden and 
very durable ; which, he adds, is to be found in no other nation. 



122 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

There Tvas an Italian painter who said that the 
secret of all effect in color consisted in white upon 
black, and black upon white. How perfectly did 
Shakspeare understand this secret of effect ! and 
how beautifully he has exemplified it in Juliet ? 

So shows a snovry dove ti'ooping with crows, 
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows! 

Thus she and her lover are in contrast with all 
around them. They are all love, surrounded with 
all hate ; all harmony, surrounded with all discord : 
all pure nature, in the midst of polished and artifi- 
cial life. Juliet, like Portia, is the foster child of 
opulence and splendor ; she dwells in a fair city — 
she has been nurtured in a palace — she clasps her 
robe with jewels — she braids her hair with rainbow- 
tinted pearls ; but in herself she has no more con- 
nection with the trappings around her, than the 
lovely exotic, transplanted from some Eden-like 
climate, has with the carved and gilded conser- 
vatory which has reared and sheltered its luxuriant 
beauty. 

But in this vivid impression of contrast, there is 
nothing abrupt or harsh. A tissue of beautiful 

Mr. Moore observes afterwards, how completely an Italian 
woman, either from nature or her social position, is led to invert 
the usual course of frailty among ourselves, and, weak in resist- 
ing the first impulses of passion, to reserve the whole strength 
of her character for a display of constancy and devotednesa 
afterwards. — Both these traits of national character are exempli- 
fied in Juliet.— JVIoore's Life of Byroji, vol. ii. pp. 303, 338. 4to 
edit 



JULIET. 1 23 

poetry weaves together the principal figures, and 
the subordinate personages. The consistent truth 
of the costume, and the exquisite gradations of re- 
lief with which the most opposite hues are approx- 
imated, blend all into harmony. Komeo and Juliet 
are not poetical beings placed on a prosaic back- 
ground; nor are they, like Thekla and Max in, 
the Wallenstein, two angels of light amid the dark- 
est and harshest, the most debased and revolting 
aspects of humanity ; but every circumstance, and 
every personage, and every shade of character in 
each, tends to the development of the sentiment 
which is the subject of the drama. The poetry, 
too, the richest that can possibly be conceived, is 
interftised through all the characters ; the splendid 
imagery lavished upon all with the careless prodi- 
gality of genius, and the whole is lighted up into 
such a sunny brilliance of effect, as though Shak- 
spcare had really transported himself into Italy, and 
had drunk to intoxication of her genial atmos- 
phere. How truly it has been said, that " although 
Romeo and Juliet are in love, they are not love- 
sick ! " What a false idea would anything of the 
mere whining amoroso, give us of Romeo, such as 
he really is in Shakspeare — the noble, gallant, 
ardent, brave, and witty ! And Juliet — with even 
less truth could the phrase or idea apply to her ! 
The picture in " Twelfth Night " of the wan girl 
dying of love, " who pined in thought, and with a 
green and yellow melancholy," would never surely 
occur to us, when thinking on the enamored and 



124 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

impassioned Juliet, in wliose bosom love keeps a 
fiery vigil, kindling tenderness into enthusiasm, 
enthusiasm into passion, passion into heroism ! No, 
the whole sentiment of the play is of a far difierent 
cast. It is flushed with the genial spirit of the south : 
it tastes of youth, and of the essence of youth ; of 
♦life, and of the very sap of life.* We have indeed 
the struggle of love against evil destinies, and a 
thorny world ; the pain, the grief, the anguish, the 
terror, the despair; the aching adieu; the pang 
unutterable of parted affection ; and rapture, truth, 
and tenderness trampled into an early grave : but 
still an Elysian grace lingers round the whole, and 
the blue sky of Italy bends over all ! 

In the dehneation of that sentiment which forms 
the groundwork of the drama, nothing in fact can 
equal the power of the picture, but its inexpressible 
sweetness and its perfect grace : the passion which 
has taken possession of Juliet's whole soul, has the 
force, the rapidity, the resistless violence of the tor- 
rent : but she is herself as " moving delicate," as 
fair, as soft, as flexible as the willow that bends 
over it, whose light leaves tremble even with the 
motion of the current which hurries beneath them. 
But at the same time that the pervading sentiment 
is never lost sight of, and is one and the same 
throughout, the individual part of the character in 
all its variety is developed, and marked with the 
nicest discrimination. For instance, — the simplicity 

* La seve dt la vie., is an expression used somewhere by Ma- 
dame de Stael. 



JULIET. 125 

of Juliet is very different from the simplicity of 
Miranda : her innocence is not the innocence of a 
desert island. The energy she displays does not 
once renund us of the moral grandeur of Isabel, or 
the intellectual power of Portia ; — it is founded in 
the strength of passion, not in the strength of char- 
acter : — it is acciderrtal rather than inherent, rising 
with the tide of feeling or temper, and with it sub- 
siding. Her romance is not the pastoral romance 
of Perdita, nor the fanciful romance of Viola ; it is 
the romance of a tender heart and a poetical imag- 
ination. Her inexperience is not ignorance : she 
has heard that there is such a thing as falsehood, 
though she can scarcely conceive it. Her mother 
and her nurse have perhaps warned her against 
flattering vows and man's inconstancy ; or she has 
even 

Turned the tale by Ariosto told, 

Of fan- Olympia, loved and left, of old ! 

Hence that bashful doubt, dispelled almost as soon 
as felt — 

Ah, gentle Romeo ! 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faitlifully. 

That conscious shrinking from her own confes- 
sion — 

Fain would I dwell on form ; fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke ! 

The ingenuous simplicity of her avowal — 



126 CHAEACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

Or if thou tliink'st I am too quickly won, 

I'll frowu, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 

So thou wilt woo — but else, not for the woi'ld ! 

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond. 

And therefore thou may'st tlamk my 'havior light, 

But tnist me, gentleman, I'll prove more ti-ue 

Than those who have more cunning to be strange. 

And the proud yet timid delicacy, with which she 
throws herself for forbearance and pardon upon 
the tenderness of him she loves, even for the love 
she bears him — 

Therefore pardon me. 
And not impute this yielding to light love. 
Which the dark night hath so discovered. 

In the alternative, which she afterwards places 
before her lover with such a charming mixture of 
conscious delicacy and girlish simplicity, there is 
that jealousy of female honor which precept and 
education have infused into her mind, without one 
real doubt of his truth, or the slightest hesitation in 
her self-abandonment : for she does not even wait 
to hear his asseverations ; — 

But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee 
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. 

BOMEO. 

So thrive my soul 

JULIET. 

A thousand times, good night ! 



JULIET. 127 

But all these flutterings between native impulses 
and maiden fears become gradually absorbed, swept 
away, lost, and swallowed up in the depth and en- 
thusiasm of confiding love. 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
My love as deep ; the more I give to you 
The more I have — for both are injinite! 

What a picture of the young heart, that sees no 
bound to its hopes, no end to its affections ! For 
" what was to hinder the thrilling tide of pleasure 
■which had just gushed from her heart, from flow- 
ing on without stint or measure, but experiencp, 
which she was yet without ? What was to abate 
the transport of the first sweet sense of pleasure 
which her heart had just tasted, but indifference, 
to which she was yet a stranger ? What was there 
to check the ardor of hope, of faith, of constancy, 
just rising in her breast, but disappointment, which 
she had never yet felt ? " * 

Lord Byron's Haidee is a copy of Juhet in the 
Oriental costume, but tlie development is epic, not 
dramatic .f 

* Characters of Shakspeare's Plays. 

t I must allude, but >vith reluctauce, to another character, 
which I have heard likened to Juliet, and often quoted as the 
heroine par excellence of amatory fiction — I mean the Julie of 
Rousseau's NouTclIe HeloYsc ; I protest against her altogether. 
As a creation of fancy the portrait is a compound of the most 
gross and glaring incousL^itcncies ; as false and impossible to the 
rctlcctitig and philosophical mind, as the fiibled Syrens, Hama- 
dryads and Centaurs to the eye of the anatomist. As a woman, 



128 CHAKACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

I remember no dramatic character, conveying 
the same impression of singleness of purpose, and 
devotion of heart and soul, except the Thekla of 
Schiller's Wallenstein ; she is the German Juliet ; 
far unequal, indeed, but conceived, nevertheless, in 
a kindred spirit. I know not if critics have ever 
compared them, or whether Schiller is supposed to 
have had the English, or rather the Italian, Juliet 
in his fancy when he portrayed Thekla ; but there 
arc some striking points of coincidence, while the 
national distinction in the character of the passion 
leaves to Thekla a strong cast of originality.* The 

Julie belongs neither to nature nor to artificial society; and if 
the pages of melting and dazzling eloquence in which Rousseau 
has garnished out his idol did not blind and intoxicate us, as the 
incense and the garlands did the votaries of Isis, we should be 
disgusted. Rousseau, haying composed his Julie of the com- 
monest clay of the earth, does not animate her with fire from 
heaven, but breathes his own spirit into her, and then calls the 
" impetticoated " paradox a tooman. He makes her a peg on 
which to hang his own visions and sentiments — and what senti- 
ments I but that I fear to soil my pages, I would pick out a few 
of them, and show the difference between this strange combina- 
tion of youth and innocence, philosophy and pedantry, sophist- 
ical prudery, and detestable grossicrete^ and our own Juliet. 
No ! if we seek a French Juliet, we must go far — far back to the 
real HeloYse, to her eloquence, her sensibility, her fervor of pas- 
sion, her devotedness of truth. She, at least, married the man 
she loved, and loved the man she married, and more than died 
for him; but enough of both. 
* B. Constant describes her beautifully — " Sa voix si douce au 
travera le bruit des armes, sa forme delicate au milieu de ces 
hommes tous converts de fer, la purete de son amc opposee ^ 
leurs calculs avides, son calmc celeste qui contrasto avec leurs 
agitations, remplisseat le spoctatcur d'une emotion constante et 
melancolique, telle que ne la fiiit ressentir nville tragedie ordi- 
naire." 



JULIET. 129 

Princess Thckla is, like Juliet, the heiress of rank 
and opulence ; her first introduction to us, in her 
full dress and diamonds, does not impair the im- 
pression of her softness and simplicity. We do 
not think of them, nor do we sympathize with the 
complaint of her lover, — 

The dazzle of the jewels which played round you 
Hid the beloved from me. 

We almost feel the reply of Thekla before she* 
titters it, — 

Then you saw me 
Not with your heart, but with your eyes ! 

The timidity of Thekla in her first scene, her 
trembling silence in the commencement, and the 
few words she addresses to her mother, remind us of 
the unobtrusive simplicity of Juliet's first appear- 
ance ; but the impression is difi'erent ; the one is 
the shrinking violet, the other the un expanded 
rose-bud. Thekla and Max Piccolomini are, like 
Romeo and Juliet, divided by the hatred of their 
fathers. The death of Max, and the resolute des- 
pair of Thekla, are also points of resemblance ; and 
Thekla's complete devotion, her frank yet dignified 
abandonment of all disguise, and her apology for 
her own unreserve, are quite in JuHet's style, — 

I ought to be less open, ought to hide 
My heart more ft-om thee — so decorum dictates : 
But where in this place wouldst thou seek for trutlT, 
If in my mouth thou didst not find it ? 
9 



130 CHARACTERS OF PASSIOJ^", ETC. 

The same confidence, innocence, and fervor of 
affection, distinguish both heroines ; but the love 
of Juliet is more vehement, the love of Thekla is 
more calm, and reposes more on itself; the love of 
Juliet gives us the idea of infinitude, and that of 
Thekla of eternity : the love of Juliet flows on with 
an increasing tide, like the river pouring to the 
ocean ; and the love of Thekla stands unalterable, 
and enduring as the rock. In the heart of Thekla 
love shelters as in a home ; but in the heart of 
Juliet he reigns a crowned king, — " he rides on its 
pants triumphant ! " As women, they would divide 
the loves and suffrages of mankind, but not as 
dramatic characters : the moment we come to look 
nearer, we acknowledge that it is indeed " rash- 
ness and ignorance to compare Schiller with Shak- 
speare."* Thekla is a fine conception in the 
German spirit, but Juliet is a lovely and palpable 
creation. The coloring in which Schiller has ar- 
rayed his Thekla is pale, sombre, vague, compared 
with the strong individual marking, the rich glow 
of life and reality, which distinguish Juliet. One 
contrast in particular has always struck me ; the 
two beautiful speeches in the first interview be- 
tween Max and Thekla, that in which she describes 
her father's astrological chamber, and that in which 
he replies with reflections on the influence of the 
stars, are said to " form in themselves a fine poem." 
They do so; but never would Shakspeare have 

* Coleridge— preface to Wallenstein. 



JULIET. 131 

placed such extraneous description and reflection 
in the mouths of Ms lovers. Romeo and Juliet 
speak of themselves only ; they see only themselves 
in the universe, all things else are as an idle mat- 
ter. Not a word they utter, though every word is 
poetay — not a sentiment or description, though 
dressed in the most luxuriant imagery, but has a 
direct relation to themselves, or to the situation in 
which they are placed, and the feehngs that en- 
gross them : and besides, it may be remarked of 
Thekla, and generally of all tragedy heroines in 
love, that, however beautifully and distinctly char- 
acterized, we see the passion only under one or 
two aspects at most, or in conflict with some one 
circumstance or contending duty or feeling. In 
Juliet alone we find it exhibited under every 
variety of aspect, and every gradation of feeling 
it could possibly assume in a delicate female 
heart : as we see the rose, when passed through 
the colors of the prism, catch and reflect every 
tint of the divided ray, and still it is the same 
sweet rose. 

I have already remarked the quiet manner in 
which Juliet steals upon us in her first scene, as 
tlie serene, graceful girl, her feelings as yet un- 
awakened, and her energies all unknown to her- 
self, and unsuspected by others. Her silence and 
her filial deference are charming : — 

I'll look to like, if looking liking move; 
But no more deep will I endart mine eye. 
Than yoar consent shall give it strength to fly. 



132 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 

Much in the same unconscious way we are im- 
pressed with an idea of her excelling loveliness : — 

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! 

and which could make the dark vault of death " a 
feasting presence full of light." Without any 
elaborate description, we behold Juliet, as she is 
reflected in the heart of her lover, like a single 
bright star mirrored in the bosom of a deep, trans- 
parent well. The rapture with which he dwells 
on the " white wonder of her hand ; " on her lips, 
That even in pure and vestal modesty 
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. 
And then her eyes, " two of the fairest stars in 
all the heavens ! " In his exclamation in the 
sepulchre. 

Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair ! 
there is life and death, beauty and horror, rapture 
and anguish combined. The Friar's description of 

her approach, 

0, so light a step 
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint! 

and then her father's similitude. 

Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field; — 
all these mingle into a beautiful picture of youth- 
ful, airy, deUcate grace, feminine sweetness, and 
patrician elegance. 

And our impression of Juliet's loveliness and 
sensibiHty is enhanced, when we find it overcom- 
ing in the bosom of Romeo a previous love for 



JULIET. 133 

another. His visionary passion for the cold, inac- 
cessible Rosaline, forms but the prologue, the 
threshold, to the true — the real sentiment which 
succeeds to it. This incident, which is found in 
the original story, has been retained by Shakspeare 
with equal feehng and judgment; and far from 
being a fault in taste and sentiment, far from pre- 
judicing us against Romeo, by casting on him, at 
the outset of the piece, the stigma of inconstancy, 
it becomes, if properly considered, a beauty in the 
drama, and adds a fresh stroke of truth to the por- 
trait of the lover. Why, after all, should we be 
offended at what does not offend JuUet herself? 
for in the original story we find that her attention 
is first attracted towards Romeo, by seeing him 
" fancy sick and pale of cheer," for love of a cold 
beauty. We must remember that in those times 
every young cavalier of any distinction devoted 
himself, at his first entrance into the world, to the 
service of some fair lady, who was selected to be 
his fancy's queen ; and the more rigorous the 
beauty, and the more hopeless the love, the more 
honorable the slavery. To go about "metamor- 
phosed by a mistress," as Speed hmnorously ex- 
presses it,* — to maintain her supremacy in charms 
at the sword's point ; to sigh ; to walk with folded 
arms ; to be negligent and melancholy, and to show 
a careless desolation, was the fashion of the day. 
The Surreys, the Sydneys, the Bayards, the Her- 
berts of the time — all those who were the mirrors 
* In the " Two Gentlemen of Verona." 



131 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

" in which the noble youth did dress themselves," 
■were of this fantastic school of gallantry — the last 
remains of the age of chivalry ; and it was especially 
prevalent in Italy. Shakspeare has ridiculed it in 
many places with exquisite humor ; but he wished 
to show us that it has its serious as well as its comic 
aspect. Romeo, then, is introduced to us with 
perfect truth of costume, as the thrall of a dream- 
ing, fanciful passion for the scornful Rosaline, who 
had forsworn to love ; and on her charms and 
coldness, and on the power of love generally, he 
descants to his companions in pretty phrases, quite 
in the style and taste of the day.* 

Why then, brawling love, loving hate, 
any thing, of nothing first create ! 
heavy lightness, serious vanity, 
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms ! 

Love is-a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; 
Being pnrg'd, a fire sparkling in lover's eyes; 
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lover's tears. 

* There is an allusion to this court language of love in "All's 
"Well that Ends Well," where Helena says,— 

There shall your master have a thousand loves — 

A guide, a goddess, and a sorereign; 

A counsellor, a traitress, aud a dear. 

His humble ambition, proud humility. 

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 

His faith, his sweet disaster, with a world 

Of pretty fond adoptions Christendoms 

That blinlcing Cupid gossips.— Act i. Scene 1 
The courtly poets of Elizabeth's time, who copied the Italian 
Bonnetteers of the sixteenth century, are fuU of these quaini 
conceits. 



JULIET. 135 

But when once he has beheld Juliet, and quaffed 
intoxicating draughts of hope and love from her 
soft glance, how all these airy fancies fade before 
the soul-absorbing reality ! The lambent fire that 
played round his heart, burns to that heart's very 
core. We no longer find him adorning his lamen- 
tations in picked phrases, or making a confidant of 
his gay companions : he is no longer " for the 
numbers that Petrarch flowed in ; " but all is con- 
secrated, earnest, rapturous, in the feeling and the 
expression. Compare, for instance, the sparkling 
antithetical passages just quoted, with one or two 
of his passionate speeches to or of Juliet : — 

Heaven is here, 
Where Juliet lives ! &c. 

Ah Juliet ! if the measure of thy joy 
Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more 
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath 
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue 
Unfold the imagin'd happiness, that both 
Receive in either by this dear encounter. 

Come what sorrow may. 

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy 

That one short minute gives me in her sight. 

How different ! and how finely the distinction is 
drawn ! His first passion is indulged as a waking 
dream, a reverie of the fancy ; it is depressing, in- 
dolent, fantastic ; his second elevates him to the 
third heaven, or hurries him to despair. It rushes 



136 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

to its object through all impediments, defies all 
dangers, and seeks at last a triumphant grave, in 
the arms of her he so loved. Thus Romeo's pre- 
vious attachment to Rosaline is so contrived as to 
exhibit to us another variety in that passion, which 
is the subject of the poem, by showing us the dis- 
tinction between the fancied and the real sentiment. 
It adds a deeper effect to the beauty of Juliet ; it 
interests us in the commencement for the tender 
and romantic Romeo ; and gives an individual real- 
ity to his character, by stamping him like an 
historical, as well as a dramatic portrait, with the 
very spirit of the age in which he lived.* 

It may be remarked of Juliet as of Portia, that 
we not only trace the component qualities in each 
as they expand before us in the course of the ac- 
tion, but we seem to have known them previously, 
and mingle a consciousness of their past, with the 
interest of their present and their future. Thus, 
in the dialogue between Juliet and her parents, 
and in the scenes with the Nurse, we seem to have 
before us the whole of her previous education and 
habits : we see her, on the one hand, kept in severe 
subjection by her austere parents ; and on the 
other, fondled and spoiled by a foolish old nurse — 
a situation perfectly accordant with the manners of 
the time. Then Lady Capulet comes sweeping by 
with her train of velvet, her black hood, her fan, 

* Since this was written, I have met with some remarks of a 
similar tendency in that most interesting book, " The Life of 
Lord E. Fitzgerald." 



JULIET. 137 

and her rosary — the very heau-ideal of a proud 
Italian matron of the fifteenth century, whose offer 
to poison Komeo in revenge for the death of Ty- 
balt, stamps her with one very characteristic trait 
of the age and country. Yet she loves her daugh- 
ter \ and there is a touch of remorseful tenderness 
in her lamentation over her, which adds to our im- 
pression of the timid softness of Juliet, and the 
harsh subjection in which she has been kept : — 

But one, poor one ! — one poor and loving child, 

But one thing to rejoice and solace in. 

And ci-uel death hath catched it from my sight ! 

Capulet, as the jovial, testy old man, the self- 
willed, violent, tyrannical father, — to whom his 
daughter is but a property, the appanage of his 
house, and the object of his pride, — is equal as a 
portrait : but both must yield to the Nurse, who is 
drawn with the most wonderful power and discrim- 
ination. In the prosaic homeliness of the outline, 
and the magical illusion of the coloring, she reminds 
us of some of the marvellous Dutch paintings, from 
which, with all their coarseness, we start back as 
from a reality. Her low humor, her shallow gar- 
rulity, mixed with the dotage and petulance of age 
— her subserviency, her secrecy, and her total want 
of elevated principle, or even common honesty — 
are brought before us like a living and palpable 
truth. 

Among these harsh and inferior spiiits is Juliet 
placed; her haughty parents, and her plebeian 



138 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

nurse, not only throw into beautiful relief her own 
native softness and elegance, but are at once the 
cause and the excuse of her subsequent conduct. 
She trembles before her stern mother and her 
violent father : but, like a petted child, alternately 
cajoles and commands' her nurse. It is her old 
foster-mother who is the confidante of her love. It 
is the woman who cherished her infancy, who aids 
and abets her in her clandestine marriage. Do we 
not perceive how immediately our impression of 
Juliet's character would have been lowered, if 
Shakspeare had placed her in connection ^\ith any 
common-place dramatic waiting-woman ? — even 
with Portia's adroit Nerissa, or Desdemona's 
Emilia ? By giving her the Nurse for her con- 
fidante, the sweetness and dignity of Juliet's char- 
acter are preserved inviolate to the fancy, even in 
the midst of all the romance and wilfulness of pas- 
sion. 

The natural result of these extremes of subjec- 
tion and independence, is exhibited in the char- 
acter of Juliet, as it gradually opens upon us. We 
behold it in the mixture of self-will and timidity, of 
strength and weakness, of Confidence and reserve, 
which are developed as the action of the play pro- 
ceeds. We see it in the fond eagerness of the in- 
dulged girl, for whose impatience the " nimblest of 
the lightning- winged loves " had been too slow a 
messenger ; in her petulance with her nurse ; in 
those bursts of vehement feeling, which prepare us 
for the climax of passion at the catastrophe ; in her 



139 



invectives against Roraco, "when she hears of the 
death of Tybalt ; in her indignation when the nurse 
echoes those reproaches, and the rising of her 
temper against unwonted contradiction : — 



NURSE. 

Shame come to Eomeo ! 

JULIET. 

Blistered be thy tongue, 
For such a wish ! he was not born to shame. 

Then comes that revulsion of strong feeling, that 
burst of magnificent exultation in the virtue and 
honor of her lover : — 

Upon )iis brow Shame is ashamed to sit, 

For 'tis a throne where Honor may be crown'd 

Sole monarch of the universal earth ! 

And this, by one of those quick transitions of 
feeling which belong to the character, is immediate- 
ly succeeded by a gush of tenderness and self- 
reproach — 

All, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, 
When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it ? 

With the same admirable truth of nature, Juliet 
is represented as at first bewildered by the fearful 
destiny that closes round her ; reverse is new and 
terrible to one nursed in the lap of luxury, and 
whose energies arc yet untried. 



140 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems 
Upon so soft a subject as myself. 

While a stay remains to her amid the evils that 
encompass her, she clings to it. She appeals to her 
father — to her mother — 

Good father, I beseech you on my knees, 
Hear me with patience but to speak one word ! 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Ah, sweet my mother, cast me not away ! 
Delay this marriage for a month, — a week ! 

And, rejected by both, she throws herself upon 
lier nurse in all the helplessness of anguish,' of con- 
fiding affection, of habitual dependence — 

God! nurse! how shall this be prevented? 
Some comfort, nurse ! 



The old woman, true to her vocation, and fear- 
ful lest her share in these events should be dis- 
covered, counsels her to forget Romeo and marry 
Paris ; and the moment which unveils to Juliet the 
weakness and baseness of her confidante, is the 
moment which reveals her to herself She does 
not break into upbraidings; it is no moment for 
anger ; it is incredulous amazement, succeeded by 
the extremity of scorn and abhorrence, which take 
possession of her mind. She assumes at once and 
asserts all her own superiority, and rises to majesty 
in the strength of her despair. 



JULIET. 141 

JULIET. 

Speakest tliou from thy heart ? 

NURSE. 

Aye, and from my soul too; — or else 
Beshrew them both ! 

JULIET. 

Amen ! 

This final severing of all the old familiar ties of 
her childhood — 

Go, counsellor! 
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain ! 

and the calm, concentrated force of her resolve, 

If all else fail, — myself have power to die ; 

have a sublime pathos. It appears to me also an 
admirable touch of nature, considering the master- 
passion which, at this moment, rules in Juliet's soul, 
that she is as much shocked by the nurse's dispraise 
of her lover, as by her wicked, time-serving ad- 
vice. 

This scene is the crisis in the character ; and 
henceforth we see Juliet assume a new aspect. The 
fond, impatient, timid girl, puts on the wife and the 
■woman : she has learned heroism from suifering, 
and subtlety from oppression. It is idle to criticize 
her dissembling submission to her father and 
mother; a higher duty has taken place of that 
which she owed to them ; a more sacred tie has 
severed all others. Her parents are pictured as 



142 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

tliey are, that no feeling for them may interfere in 
the slightest degree with our sympathy for the 
lovers. In the mind of Juliet there is no struggle 
between her filial and her conjugal duties, and 
there ought to be none. The Friar, her spiritual 
director, dismisses her with these instructions : — 

Go home, — be merry, — ^give consent 
To marry Paris ; 

and she obeys him. Death and suffering in every 
horrid form she is ready to brave, without fear or 
doubt, " to live an unstained wife : " and the artifice 
to which she has recourse, which she is even in- 
structed to use, in no respect impairs the beauty of 
the character; we regard it with pain and pity; 
but excuse it, as the natural and inevitable conse- 
quence of the situation in which she is placed. Nor 
should we forget, that the dissimulation, as well as 
the courage of Juliet, though they spring from pas- 
sion, are justified by principle : — 

My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; 
How shall my faith return again to earth, 
Unless that husband send it me from heaven? 

In her successive appeals to her father, her 
mother, her nurse, and the Friar, she seeks those 
remedies which would first suggest themselves to a 
gentle and virtuous nature, and grasps her dagger 
only as the last resource agciinst dishonor and 
violated faith ; — 



JULIET. 143 

God join'd my heart with Romeo's, — thou our hands. 

And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd, 

Shall be the label to another deed, 

Or my tnie heai-t with treacherous revolt 

Turn to another, — ilds shall slay them both! 

Thus, in the very tempest and whirlwind of pas- 
sion and terror, preserving, to a certain degree, 
that moral and feminine dignity which harmonizes 
with our best feelings, and commands our unre- 
proved sympathy. 

I reserve my remarks on the catastrophe, which 
demands separate consideration ; and return to 
trace from the opening, another and distinguishing 
ti*ait in Juliet's character. 

In the extreme vivacity of her imagination, and 
its influence upon the action, the language, the 
sentiments of the drama, JuHet resembles Portia ; 
but with this striking difference. In Portia, the 
imaginative power, though, developed in a high 
degree, is so equally blended with the other intel- 
lectual and moral faculties, that it does not give us 
the idea of excess. It is subject to her nobler 
reason ; it adorns and heightens all her feelings ; it 
does not overwhelm or mislead them. In Juliet, it 
is rather a part of her southern temperament, con- 
trolling and modifying the rest of her character ; 
springing from her sensibility, humed along by 
her passions, animating her joys, darkening her 
sorrows, exaggerating her terrors, and, in the end, 
overpowering her reason. With Juliet, imagina- 
tion is, in the first instance, if not the source, the 



144 CHARACTERS OP PASSION, ETC. 

medium of passion ; and passion again kindles her 
imagination. It is through the power of imagina- 
tion that the eloquence of Juliet is so vividly 
poetical ; that every feeling, every sentiment comes> 
to her, clothed in the richest imagery, and is thus 
reflected from her mind to ours. The poetry is not 
here the mere adornment, the outward garnishing 
of the character ; but its result, or rather blended 
with its essence. It is indivisible from it, and inter- 
fused through it like moonlight through the summer 
air. To particularize is almost impossible, since 
the whole of the dialogue appropriated to Juliet is 
one rich stream of imagery : she speaks in pictures • 
and sometimes they are crowded one upon another ; 
— thus in the balcony scene — 

I have no joy of this contract to-night: 
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, 
Too like the lightning which doth cease to be 
Ere one can say it lightens. 

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 

Again, 

for a falconer's voice 
To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! 
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud, 
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies. 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine 
With repetition of my Romeo's name. 

Here there are three Images in the course of six 



145 



lines. In the same scene, the speech of twenty- 
two lines, beginning, 

Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 

contains but one figurative expression, the mask of 
night; and every one reading this speech with the 
context, must have felt the peculiar propriety of its 
simplicity, though perhaps without examining the 
cause of an omission which certainly is not for- 
tuitous. The reason lies in the situation and in 
the feeling of the moment ; where confusion, and 
anxiety, and earnest self-defence predominate, the 
excitability and play of the imagination would be 
checked and subdued for the time. 

In the soHloquy of the second act, where she is 
chiding at the nurse's delay ; — 

she is lame ! Love's hei-alds should be thoughts, 
That ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, 
Driving back shadows over low'ring hiUs: 
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, 
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings ! 

How beautiful ! how the lines mount and float 
responsive to tlie sense ! She goes on — 

Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, 
She'd be as swift in motion as a ball; 
My words should bandy her to my sweet love, 
And his to me ! 

The famous soliloquy, " Gallop apace, ye fiery- 
footed steeds," teems with luxuriant imagery. The 
fond adjuration, " Come night ! come Romeo ! covie 
10 



146 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

thou day in night ! " expresses that fulness of en- 
thusiastic admiration for her lover, which possesses 
her whole soul; but expresses it as only Juhet 
could or would have expressed it, — in a bold and 
beautiful metaphor. Let it be remembered, that, in 
this speech, Juliet is not supposed to be addressing 
an audience, nor even a confidante ; and I confess 
I have been shocked at the utter want of taste and 
refinement in those who, with coarse derision, or 
in a spirit of prudery, yet more gross and perverse, 
have dared to comment on this beautiful " Hymn 
to the Night," breathed out by Juliet in the silence 
and solitude of her chamber. She is thinking 
aloud ; it is the young heart " triumphing to itself 
in words." In the midst of all the vehemence with 
which she calls upon the night to bring Romeo to 
her arms, there is something so almost infantine in 
her perfect simpHcity, so playful and fantastic in 
the imagery and language, that the charm of sen- 
timent and innocence is thrown over the whole ; 
and her impatience, to use her own expression, is 
truly that of " a child before a festival, that hath 
new robes and may not wear them." It is at the 
very moment too that her whole heart and fancy 
are abandoned to blissful anticipation, that the 
nurse enters with the news of Romeo's banishment ; 
and the immediate transition from rapture to de- 
spair has a most powerful effect. 

It is the same shaping spirit of imagination which, 
in the scene with the Friar, heaps together all im- 
ages of horror that ever hung upon a troubled 
dream. 



JULIET. 147 

bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, 
From off the battlements of yonder tower. 
Or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk 
Whore sei-pents are — chain me with roaring bears, 
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house 
O'ercovered quite with dead men's rattling bones; 
Or bid me go into a new made grave; 
Or hide me with a dead man in his shroud ; — 
Things that to hoar them told have made me tremble ! 

But she inimediately adds, — 

And I wiU do it without fear or doubt. 

To live an unstained wife to my sweet love ! 

In the scene where she drinks the sleeping po- 
tion, although her spirit does not quail, nor her de- 
termination falter for an instant, her vivid fancy 
conjures up one terrible apprehension after another, 
till gradually, and most naturally in such a mind 
once thrown off its poise, the horror rises to frenzy 
— her imagination realizes its own hideous crea- 
tions, and she sees her cousin Tybalt's ghost. * 

In particular passages this luxuriance of fancy 
may seem to wander into excess. For instance, — 

serpent heart, hid with a flowery face! 
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? 
Beautiful tyrant ! fiend angelical ! 
Dove-feather' d raven! wolfish ravening lamb, &c. 

* Juliet, courageously drinking off the potion, after she ha3 
placed before herself in the most fearful colors all its possible 
consequences, is compared by Schlegel to the fsunous story of 
Alexauder and his physician. 



148 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

Yet this highly figurative and antithetical ex- 
uberance of language is defended by Schlegel on 
strong and just grounds ; and to me also it appears 
natural, however critics may argue against its taste 
or propriety* The warmth and vivacity of Juliet's 
fancy, which plays like a light over every part of 
her character — which animates every line she uttei'o 
■ — which kindles every thought into a picture, and 
clothes her emotions in visible images, would natu- 
rally, under strong and unusual excitement, and in 
the conflict of opposing sentiments, run into some 
extravagance of diction.f 

With regard to the termination of the play, which 

* Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
Thoughts so all unUke each other ; 
To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
To dally with wropg that does no harm! 
Perhaps 'tis tender, too, and pretty, 
At each wild word to feel within 
A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
And what if in a world of sin 
(0 sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
So talks as it's most used to do? Coleridge. 

These lines seem to me to form the truest comment on Juliet's 
wild exclamations against Romeo 

t "The censure," observes Schlegel, " originates" in a fanciless 
way of thinking, to which every thing appears unnatural that 
does not suit its tame insipidity. Hence an idea has been 
formed of simple and natural pathos which consists in exclama- 
tions destitute of imagery, and nowise elevated above every-day 
life; but energetic passions electrify the whole mental powers, 
and will, consequently, in highly-favored natures, express them- 
selves in an ingenious and figurative manner " 



JULIET. 149 

has been a subject of much critical argument, it is 
well known that Shakspeare, following the old 
English versions, has departed from the original 
story of Da Porta ; * and I am incUned to believe 



* The " Giulietta " of Luig:i da Porta was written about 1520. 
In a popular little book published in 1565, thirty years before 
Shakspeare wrote his tragedy, the name of Juliet occurs as an 
example of faithful love, and is thus explained by a note in the 
margin. " Juliet, a noble maiden of the citie of Verona, which 
loved Romeo, eldest son of the Lord Monteschi ; and being privily 
married together, he at last poisoned himself for love of her : 
she, for sorrow of his death, slew herself with his dagger." This 
note, which furnishes, in brief, the whole argument of Shak- 
speare's play, might possibly have made the first impression on 
bis fancy. In the novel of Da Porta the catastrophe is alto- 
gether different. After the death of Romeo, the Friar Lorenzo 
endeavors to persuade Juliet to leave the fatal monument. She 
refuses ; and throwing herself back on the dead body of her 
husband, she resolutely holds her breath and dies. — "E volta- 
tasi al gia,cente corpo di Romeo, il cui capo sopra un origlicre, 
che con lei neir area era stato lasciato, posto aveva; gli occhi 
meglio rinchiusi avendogli, e di lagrime il freddo volto bagnan- 
dogli, disse; " Che debbo senza di te in vita pia fare, signor mio? 
e che altro mi resta verso te se non coUa mia morte seguirti? 
" E detto questo, la sua gran sciagura nell' animo recatasi, e la 
perdita del caro amante ricordandosi, deliberaudo di piu non 
vivere, raccolto a se il fiato, e per buono spazio tenutolo, e pos- 
cia con un gran grido fuori mandandolo, sopra il morto corpo, 
morta ricadde." 

There is nothing so improbable in the story of Romeo and 
Juliet as to make us doubt the tradition that it is a real fact. 
" The Veronese," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters from 
Verona, " are tenacious to a degree of the truth of Juliet's story, 
insisting on the fact, giving the date 1303, and showing a tomb. 
It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered 
leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden — once a 
cemetery, now ruined, to the very graves! The situation struck 
me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their 



150 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

that Da Porta, in making Juliet waken from lier 
trance while Romeo yet lives, and in his terrible 
final scene between the lovers, has himself departed 
from the old tradition, and, as a romance, has cer- 
tainly improved it ; but that which is effective in 
a narrative, is not always calculated for the drama ; 
and I cannot but agree with Schlegel, that Shak. ■ 
speare has done well and wisely in adhering to the 
old story. Can we doubt for a moment that he who 
has given us the catastrophe of Othello, and the 
tempest scene in Lear, might also have adopted 
these additional circumstances of horror in the fate 
of the lovers, and have so treated them as to har- 
row up our very soul — had it been his object to do 
so ? But apparently it was not. The tale is one, 

Such as, once heard, in gentle heai't destroys 
All pain but pity. 

It is in truth a tale of love and sorrow, not of 
anguish and terror. We behold the catastrophe 
afar off with scarcely a wish to avert it. Romeo 
and Juliet must die ; their destiny is fulfilled ; they 
have quaffed off the cup of life, with all its infinite 
of joys and agonies, in one intoxicating draught. 
What have they to do more upon this earth? 

love." He mig-ht have added, that when Verona itself, with its 
amphitheatre and its Paladian structures, lies level with the 
earth, the very spot on which 4>; stood will be consecrated by the 
memory of Juliet. 

When in Italy, I met a gentleman, who being then " dans le 
genre romantique,^^ wore a fragment of JuUet's tomb set in a 
ring. 



JULIET. 151 

Younfr, innocent, lo\'ing; and beloved, they descend 
together into the tomb : but Shakspeare has made 
tliat tomb a shrine of mart}Ted and sainted affec- 
tion consecrated for the worship of all hearts, — not 
a dark charnel vault, haunted by spectres of pain, 
rage, and desperation. Romeo and Juliet are 
pictured lovely in death as in life ; the sympathy 
they inspire does not oppress us with that suffocat- 
ing sense of horror, which in the altered tragedy 
makes the fall of the curtain a relief; but all pain 
is lost in the tenderness and poetic beauty of the 
picture. Romeo's last speech over his bride is not 
like the raving of a disappointed boy : in its deep 
pathos, its rapturous despair, its glowing imagery, 
there is the very luxury of life and love. JuHet, 
who had drunk off the sleeping potion in a fit of 
frenzy, wakes calm and collected — 

I do remember well where I should be, 
And there I am — Where is my EomeoV 

The profound slumber in which her senses have 
been steeped for so many hours has tranquillized 
her nerves, and stilled the fever in her blood ; she 
wakes " like a sweet child who has been dreaming 
of something promised to it by its mother," and 
opens her eyes to ask for it — 

Where is my Eomeo ? 

she is answered at once, — 

Thy husband in thy bosom here lies dead. 



152 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

This Is enough : she sees at once the whole horror 
of her situation — she sees it with a quiet and re- 
solved despair — she utters no reproach against the 
Friar — makes no inquiries, no complaints, except 
that affecting remonstrance — 

churl — drink all, and leave no friendly drop 

To help me after ! ^ 

All that is left to her is to die, and she dies. The 
poem, which opened with the enmity of the two 
families, closes with their reconciliation over the 
breathless remains of their children ; and no vio- 
lent, frightful, or discordant feeling is suffered to 
mingle with that soft impression of melancholy left 
within the heart, and which Schlegel compares to 
one long, endless sigh. 

" A youthful passion," says Goethe, (alluding to 
one of his own early attachments,) " which is con- 
ceived and cherished without any certain object, 
may be compared to a shell thrown from a mortar 
by night : it rises calmly in a brilliant track, and 
seems to mix, and even to dwell for a moment, 
with the stars of heaven ; but at length it falls — it 
bursts — consuming and destroying all around, even 
as itself expires." 

***** 

To conclude : love, considered under its poetical 
aspect, is the union of passion and imagination ; 
and accordingly, to one of these, or to both, all the 
qualities of Juliet's mind and heart (unfolding and 
varying as the action of the drama proceeds) may 



HELENA. 153 

'■ ' t. 

be finally traced ; the former concentrating all ' 
those natural impulses, fervent affections and high 
energies, -which lend the character its internal 
charm, its moral power and individual interest : the 
latter diverging from all those splendid and luxu- 
riant accompaniments which invest it with its ex- 
ternal glow, its beauty, its vigor, its freshness, and 
its truth. 

With all this inmiense capacity of affection and 
imagination, there is a deficiency of reflection and 
of moral energ}^ arising from previous habit and 
education : and the action of the drama, while 
it serves to developc the character, appears but 
its natural and necessary result. " Le myst^re 
de I'existence," said Madame de Stael to her 
daughter, "e'est le rapport de nos erreurs avec 
nos peines." 



HELENA. 

In the character of Juliet we have seen the pas- 
sionate and the imaginative blended in an equal 
degree, and in the highest conceivable degree 
as combined with delicate female nature. In 
Helena we have a modification of character al- 
together distinct; allied, indeed, to Juliet as a 
picture of fervent, enthusiastic, self-forgetting love, 
but differing wholly from her in other respects ; for 
Helen is the union of strength of passion with 
strength of character. 



154: CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 

" To be tremblingly alive to gentle impressions, 
and yet be able to preserve, when the prosecution 
of a design requires it, an immovable heart amidst 
even the most imperious causes of subduing emo- 
tion, is perhaps not an impossible constitution of 
mind, but it is the utmost and rarest endowment of 
humanity." * Such a character, almost as difficult 

^W delineate in fiction as to find in real life, has 
Shakspeare given us in Helena ; touched with the 
most soul-subduing pathos, and develojDcd with the 
most consummate skill. 

Helena, as a woman, is more passionate than im- 
aginative ; and, as a character, she bears the same 
relation to Juliet that Isabel bears to Portia. There 
is equal unity of purpose and effect, with much less 
of the glow of imagery and the external coloring of 
poetry in the sentiments, language, and details. It 
is passion developed under its most profound and 
serious aspect ; as in Isabella, we have the serious 
and the thoughtful, not the brilliant side of intel- 
lect. Both Helena and Isabel are distinguished by 

._high mental ^pewers, tinged with a melancholy 
sweetness ; but in Isabella the serious and energetic 
part of the character is founded in religious prin- 
ciple ; in Helena it is founded in deep passion. 

There never was, perhaps, a more beautiful 
picture of a woman's love, cherished in secret, not 
self-consuming in silent languishment — not pining 
in thought — not passive and " desponding over its 
idol" — but patient and hopeful, strong in its own 
* Foster's Essays. 



HELENA. 155 

intensity, and sustained by its own fond faitli. The 
passion here reposes upon itself for all its interest ; 
it derives nothing from art or ornament or circum- 
stance ; it has nothing of the picturesque charm or 
glowing romance of Juliet ; nothing of the poetical 
splendor of Portia, or the vestal grandeur of Isabel. 
The situation of Helena is the most painful and 
degrading in which a woman can be placed. She 
is poor and lowly ; she loves a man who is far her 
superior in rank, who repays her love with indiflfer- 
ence, and rejects her hand with scorn. She mar- 
ries him against his will ; he leaves her with con- 
tumely on the day of their marriage, and makes his 
return to her arms depend on conditions apparently 
impossible.* J All the circumstances and details 
with which Helena is surrounded, are shocking to 
our feelings and wounding to our delicacy : and yet 
the beauty of the character is made to triumph over 
all : and Shakspeare, resting for all his effect on 
its internal resources and its genuine truth and 
-,^weetness, has not even availed himself of some 
extraneous advantages with which Helen is repre- 
sented in the original story. She is the Giletta di 
Narbonna of Boccaccio. In the Italian tale, Giletta 
is the daughter of a celebrated physician attached 
to the court of Roussillon ; she is represented as a 
rich heiress, who rejects many suitors of worth and 

* I bare read somewhere that the play of which Helena is the 
heroine, (All's Well that Encls Well,) was at first entitled by 
Shakspeare " Loye's Labor Won." 'Why the title was altered, 
or by whom, I cannot discover. 



156 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

rank, in consequence of her secret attaclunent to 
the young Bertram de Koussillon. She cures the 
King of France of a grievous distemper, by one of 
her father's prescriptions ; and she asks and re- 
ceives as her reward the young Count of Roussillon 
as her wedded husband. He forsakes her on their 
wedding day, and she retires, by his order, to his 
territory of Roussillon. There she is received with 
honor, takes state upon her in her husband's ab- 
sence as the " lady of the land," administers justice, 
and rules her lord's dominions so wisely and so 
well, that she is universally loved and reverenced 
by his subjects. In the mean time, the Count, in- 
stead of rejoining her, flies to Tuscany, and the 
rest of the story is closely followed in the drama. 
The beauty, wisdom, and royal demeanor of Giletta 
are charmingly described, as well as her fervent 
love for Bertram. But Helena, in the play, derives 
no dignity or interest from place or circumstance, 
and rests for all our sympathy and respect solely 
upon the truth and intensity of her affections. 
She is indeed represented to us as one 

Whose beauty did astonish the siu-vey 
Of richest eyes : whose words all ears took captive ; 
Whose dear perfection, hearts that scom'd to serve, 
Humbly called mistress. 

As her dignity is derived from mental power, with- 
out any alloy of pride, so her humility has a pecu- 
liar grace. If she feels and repines over her lowly 
birth, it is merely as an obstacle wliich separates 



HELENA. 157 

her from the man she loves. She is more sensible 
to his greatness than her own littleness : she is con- 
tinually looking from herself up to him, not fi'om 
him down to herself. She has been bred up under 
the same roof with him ; she has adored him from 
infancy. Her love is not " th' infection taken in at 
the eyes," nor kindled by youthful romance : it ap- 
pears to have taken root in her being ; to have 
grown with her years ; and to have gradually ab- 
sorbed all her thoughts and faculties, until her 
fancy " carries no favor in it but Bertram's," and 
" there is no hving, none, if Bertram be away." 

It may be said that Bertram, arrogant, wayward, 
and heartless, does not justify this ardent and deep 
devotion. But Helena does not behold him with 
our eyes ; but as he is " sanctified in her idolatrous 
fancy." Dr. Johnson says he cannot reconcile 
himself to a man who marries Helena like a coward, 
and leaves her like a profligate. This is much too 
severe ; in the first place, there is no necessity that 
we should reconcile ourselves to him. In this con- 
sists a part of the v/onderful beauty of the character 
of Helena — a part of its womanly truth, which 
Johnson, who accuses Bertram, and those who so 
plausibly defend him, did not understand. If it 
never happened in real life, that a woman, richly 
endued with heaven's best gifts, loved with all her 
heart, and soul, and strength, a man unequal to or 
unworthy of her, and to whose faults herself alone 
was blind — I would give up the point : but if it be 
in nature, why should it not be in Shakspeare ? 



158 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

We are not to look into Bertram's character for tho 
spring and source of Helena's love for liim, but into 
her own. She loves Bertram, — because she loves 
him ! — a woman's reason, — but here, and sometimes 
elsewhere, all-sufficient. 

And although Helena tells herself that she loves 
in vain, a conviction stronger than reason tells her 
that she does not : her love is like a religion, pure, 
holy, and deep : the blessedness to which she has 
lifted her thoughts is forever before her ; to despair 
would be a crime, — ^it would be to cast herself 
away and die. The faith of her afi'ection, combin- 
ing with the natural energy of her character, be- 
lieving all things possible makes them so. It could 
say to the mountain of pride which stands between 
her and her hopes, " Be thou removed ! " and it is 
removed. This is the solution of her behavior in 
the marriage scene, where Bertram, with obvious 
reluctance and disdain, accepts her hand, which the 
king, his feudal lord and guardian, forces on him. 
Her maidenly feeling is at first shocked, and she 
shrinks back — 

That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad: 
Let the rest go. 

But shall she weakly relinquish the golden oppor- 
tunity, and dash the cup from her lips at the mo- 
ment it is presented ? Shall she cast away the 
treasure for which she has ventured both life and 
honor, when it is just within her grasp ? Shall she, 
after compromising her feminine delicacy by the 



HELENA. 159 

public disclosure of her preference, be thrust back 
into shame, " to blush out the remainder of her 
life," and die a poor, lost, scorned thing ? This 
would be very pretty and interesting and character- 
istic in Viola or Ophelia, but not at all consistent 
with that high determined spirit, that moral energy, 
with which Helena is portrayed. Pride is the only 
obstacle opposed to her. She is not despised and 
rejected as a woman, but as a poor physician's 
daughter ; and tliis, to an understanding so clear, 
so strong, so just as Helena's, is not felt as an un- 
pardonable insult. The mere pride of rank and 
birth is a prejudice of which she cannot comprehend 
the force, because her mind towers so immeasurably 
above it ; and, compared to the infinite love which 
swells within her own bosom, it sinks into nothing. 
She cannot conceive that he, to whom she has de- 
voted her heart and truth, her soul, her life, her 
service, must not one day love her in return ; and 
once her own beyond the reach of fate, that her 
cares, her caresses, her unwearied patient tender- 
ness, will not at last " win her lord to look upon 
her "— 

For time will bring on summer, 

When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns, 

And be as sweet as sharp. 

It is this fond faith which, hoping all things, 
enables her to endure all things : — which hallows 
and dignifies the surrender of her woman's pride, 
making it a sacrifice on wliich virtue and love 
throw a mingled incense. 



16D CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

The scene in wliich tlie Countess extorts from 
Helen the confession of her love, must, as an illus- 
tration, be given here. It is perhaps, the finest in 
the whole play, and brings out all the striking 
points of Helen's character, to which I have already 
alluded. We must not fail to remark, that though 
the acknowledgment is wrung from her with an 
agony which seems to convulse her whole being, 
yet when once she has given it solemn utterance, 
she recovers her presence of mind, and asserts her 
native dignity. In her justification of her feelings 
and her conduct, there is neither sophistry, nor 
self-deception, nor presumption, but a noble sim- 
plicity, combined with the most impassioned 
earnestness ; while the language naturally rises in 
its eloquent beauty, as the tide of feeling, now first 
let loose from the bursting heart, comes pouring 
forth in words. The whole scene is wonderfully 
beautiful. 

HELENA. 

What is your pleasure, madam? 

COUNTESS. 

You know, Helen, I am a mother to you . 

HELENA. 

Mine honorable mistress. 



Nay, a mother; 
Why not a mother? When I said a mother, 
Methought you saw a serpent : what's in mother, 
That you start at it ? I say, I am your mother ; 



161 



Aiid put you in the catalogue of those 
That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen, 
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds 
A native slip to us from foreign seeds. 
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan, 
Yet I express to you a mother's care; — 
God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood, 
To say, I am thy mother? What's the matter, 
That this distempered messenger of wet. 
The many-color'd Iris, rounds thine eye? 
Why ? that you are my daughter ? 

HELENA. 

That I am not. 

COUNTESS. 

I say, I am your mother. 

HELENA. 

Pardon, madam : 
The Count Roussillon cannot be my brother : 
I am from humble, he from honor'd name; 
No note upon my parents, his all noble : 
My master, my dear lord he is : and I 
His servant live, and will his vassal die : 
He must not be my brother. 

COUNTESS. 

Nor I your mother? 

HELENA. 

You are my mother, madam ; would you were 
(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,) 
Indeed my mother, or, were you both our mothers, 
I care no more for, than I do for Heaven,* 

♦i.e. I care as much for as I do for heaven. 
11 



162 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

So I were not his sister; can't no other, 

But I, your daughter, he must be my brother? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law ; 
God shield, you mean it not ! daughter and mother 
So strive upon your pulse: what, pale again? 
My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see 
The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross 
You love my son; invention is asham'd, 
Against the proclamation of thy passion. 
To say, thou dost not : therefore teU me true ; 
But tell me, then, 'tis so: — for, look, thy cheeks 
Confess it, one to the other. 

Speak, is't so? 
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue ! 
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee, 
As heaven shall work in me for thy avail. 
To tell me truly. 

HELENA. 

Good madam, pardon me ! 

COUNTESS. 

Do you love my son ? 

HELENA. 

Yom- pardon, noble mistress ! 

COUNTESS. 

Love you my son ? 

HELENA. 

Do not you love him, madam ? 

COUNTESS. 

Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, 



163 



Whereof the world takes note : come, come, disclose 
The state of j^our affection ; for your passions 
Have to the full appeach'd. 

HELENA. 

Then I confess 
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you. 
That before you, and next unto high heaven, 
I love your son : — 

My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love. 
Be not offended ; for it hurts not him, 
That he is loved of me ; I follow him not 
By any token of presumptuous suit ; 
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him: 
Yet never know how that desert should be. 
I know I love in vain ; strive against hope ; 
Yet, in this captious and untenible sieve, 
I still pour in the waters of my love. 
And lack not to love still : thus, Indian-like, 
Religious in mine error, I adore 
The sun that looks upon his worshipper. 
But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
Let not your hate encounter with my love. 
For loving where you do : but, if yourself, 
Wliose aged honor cites a virtuous youth, 
Did ever in so true a flame of liking, 
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian 
Was both herself and love ; then give pity 
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose 
But lend and give, where she is sure to lose; 
That seeks not to find that her search implies, 
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 



This old Countess of Rousslllon is a cliarming 
sketch. She is like one of Titian's old women, who 



164 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

still, amid their wrinkles, remind us of that soul of 
beauty and sensibility, which must have animated 
them when young. She is a fine contrast to Lady 
Capulet — ^benign, cheerful, and affectionate ; she 
has a benevolent enthusiasm, which neither age, 
nor sorrow, nor pride can wear away. Thus, when 
she is brought to believe that Helen nourishes a 
secret attachment for her son, she observes — 

Even so it was with me when I was young ! 

This thorn 
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong, 
It is the show and seal of nature's ti'uth. 
When love's strong passion is impress'd in youth. 

Her fond, maternal love for Helena, whom she 
has brought up : her pride in her good qualities 
overpowering all her own prejudices of rank and 
birth, are most natural in such a mind ; and her 
indignation against her son, however strongly ex- 
pressed, never forgets the mother. 

What angel shall 
Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive 
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear 
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath 
Of greatest justice. 

Which of them both 
Is dearest to me — I have no skill in sense 
To make distinction. 

This is very skilfully, as well as delicately con- 
ceived. In rejecting those poetical and accidental 
advantages which Giletta possesses in the original 



165 



story, Shakspeare has substituted the beautiful 
character of the Countess ; and he has contrived, 
that, as the character of Helena should rest for its 
internal charm on the depth of her own affections, 
so it should depend for its external interest on the 
affection she inspires. The enthusiastic tenderness 
of the old Countess, the admiration and respect of 
the King, Lafeu, and all who are brought in con- 
nection with her, make amends for the humiliating 
neglect of Berti^am; and cast round Helen that 
collateral light, which Giletta in the story owes to 
other circumstances, striking indeed, and well im- 
agined, but not (I think) so finely harmonizing 
with the character. 

It is also very natural that Helen, with the in- 
tuitive discernment of a pure and upright mind, 
and the penetration of a quick-witted woman, 
should be the first to detect the falsehood and 
cowardice of the boaster Parolles, who imposes on 
every one else. 

It has been remarked, that there is less of poet- 
ical imagery in tliis play than in many of the 
others. V.A certain solidity in Helen's character 
takes place of the ideal power ; and with consistent 
truth of keeping, the same predominance of feeling 
over fancy, of .the reflective over the imaginative 
faculty, is maintained through the whole dialogue. 
Yet the finest passages in the serious scenes are 
those appropriated to her ; they are familiar and 
celebrated as quotations, but fully to understand 
their beauty and truth, they should be considered 



166 CHAKACTEKS OF PASSlO^y, ETC 

relatively to her character and situation ; thus, 
when in speaking of Beiiram, she says, " that he is 
one to whom she wishes well," the consciousness of 
the disproportion between her words and her feel- 
ings draws from her this beautiful and affecting ob- 
servation, so just in itself, and so true to her situ- 
ation, and to the sentiment which fills her whole 

heart : — 

'Tis pity 
That wishing well had not a body in't 
Which might be felt : that we the poorer born. 
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, 
Might with effects of them follow our friends, 
And act what we must only think, which never 
Returns us thanks. 

Some of her general reflections have a senten- 
tious depth and a contemplative melancholy, which 
remind us of Isabella : — 

Our remedies oft in themselves do lie 
Which we ascribe to heaven ; the fated sky 
Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull 
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. 

Impossible be strange events to those 

That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppose 

What hath been cannot be. 

He that of greatest works is finisher, 
Oft does them by the weakest minister; 
So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, 
When judges have been babes. 

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 



i 



HELENA. 167 

Where most it promises ; and oft it hits, 
Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits. 

Her sentiments in the same manner are remark- 
able for the union of profound sense with the most 
\ passionate feeling ; and when her language is figu- 
I rative, which is seldom, the picture presented to us 
is invariably touched either with a serious, a lofty, 
or a melancholy beauty. For instance : — 

It were all one 

That I should love a bright particular star, 

And think to wed it — he's so far above me. 

And when she is brought to choose a husband 
from among the young lords at the court, her heart 
having already made its election, the strangeness 
of that very privilege for which she had ventured 
all, nearly overpowers her, and she says beauti- 
fuDy:— 

The blushes on my cheeks thus whisper me, 
" We blush that thou shouldst choose ; — but be refused, 
Let the white death sit on that cheek for ever 
We'll ne'er come there again! " 

In her soliloquy after she has been forsaken by 
Bertram, the beauty lies in the intense feeling, the 
force and simplicity of the expressions. There is 
little imagery, and wherever it occurs, it is as bold 
as it is beautiful, and springs out of the energy of 
tlie sentiment, and the pathos of the situation. She 
has been reading his cruel letter. 



168 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

Till I have no wife [have nothing in France. 
'Tis bitter! 
^Nothing in Frtince, until he has no wife ! 
Thou shalt have none, Eoussillon, none in France, 
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is't I 
That chase thee from thy country, and expose 
Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
Of the none-sparing war? And is it I 
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 
Wast shot at with fiiir eyes, to be the mai'k 
Of smoky muskets ? you leaden messengers. 
That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 
Fly with false aim ! move the still-piei'cing air, 
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord ! 
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ; 
Whoever charges on his forward breast, 
1 am the caitiflf that do hold him to it ; 
And though I kill him not, I am the cause 
His death was so eflected; better 'twere 
I met the ravin lion when he roared 
With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere 
That all the miseries which nature owes. 
Were mine at once. 

No, no, although 
The air of paradise did fan the house. 
And angels officed all ; I will be gone. 

Thoiigli I cannot go the length of those who have 
defended Bertram on almost every point, still I 
think the censure which Johnson has passed on the 
character is much too severe. Bertram is certainly 
not a pattern hero of romance, but full of faults 
such as we meet with every day in men of his age 
and class. He is a bold, ardent, self-willed youth^. 



[69 



.^just dismissed into the world from domestic indul- 
gence, with an excess of aristocratic and military 
pride, but not without some sense of true honor 
and generosity. I have lately read a defence of 
Bertram's character, written with much elegance 
and plausibiHty. " The young Count," says this 
critic, " comes before us possessed of a good heart, 
and of no mean capacity, but with a haughtiness 
which threatens to dull the kinder passions, and to 
cloud the intellect. This is the inevitable conse- 
quence of an illustrious education. The glare of 
his birthright has dazzled his young faculties. Per- 
haps the first words he could distinguish were from 
the important nurse, giving elaborate directions 
about his lordship's pap. As soon as he could walk, 
a crowd of submissive vassals doffed their caps, and 
hailed his first appearance on his legs. His spell- 
ing book had the arms of the family emblazoned 
on the cover. He had been accustomed to hear 
himself called the great, the mighty son of Roussil- 
lou, ever since he was a helpless child. A succes- 
sion of complacent tutors would by no means de- 
stroy the illusion ; and it is from their hands that 
* Shakspeare receives him, while yet in his minority. 
An overweening pride of birth is Bertram's great 
foible. To cure him of this, Shakspeare sends him 
to the wars, that he may win fame for himself, and 
thus exchange a shadow for a reality. There the 
great dignity that his valor acquired for him places 
him on an equality with any one of his ancestors, 
apd he is no longer beholden to them alone for the 



170 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

world's observance. Thus in his own person he 
discovers there is something better than mere 
hereditary honors ; and his heart is prepared to 
acknowledge that the entire devotion of a Helen's 
love is of more worth than the court-bred smiles of 
a princess." * 

It is not extraordinary that, in the first instance, 
his spirit should revolt at the idea of marrying his 
mother's " waiting gentlewoman," or that he should 
refuse her ; yet when the king, his feudal lord, whose 
despotic authority was in this case legal and in- 
disputable, threatens him with the extremity of his 
wrath and vengeance, that he should submit him- 
self to a hard necessity, was too consistent with the 
manners of the time to be called cowardice. Such 
forced marriages were not uncommon even in our 
own country, when the right of wardship, now 
vested in the Lord Chancellor, was exercised with 
uncontrolled and often cruel despotism by the 
sovereign. 

There is an old ballad, in which the king bestows 
a maid of low degree on a noble of his court, and 
the undisguised scorn and reluctance of the knight, 
and the pertinacity of the lady, are in point. 

He brought her down full forty pound 

Tyed up within a glove, 
" Fair maid, I'll give the same to thee, 

Go seek another love." 

I'll have none of your gold," she said, 
" Nor I'll have none of your fee ; 

* New Monthly Magazine, vol. iv. 



171 



But your fair bodye I must have, 
The king hath granted me." 

Sir William ran and fetched her then, 

Five hundred pounds in gold, 
Saying, " Fair maid, take this to thee, 

My fault will ne'er be told." 

" 'Tis not the gold that shall me tempt," 

These words then answered she ; 
" But your own bodye I must have, 

The king hath granted me." 

" Would I had drank the water clear, 

When I did drink the wine, 
Eather than my shepherd's brat 

Should be a ladye of mine ! " * 

Bertram's disgust at the tyranny which has made 
his freedom the payment of another's debt, which 
has united him to a woman whose merits are not 
towards him — whose secret love, and long-enduring 
faith, are yet unknown and untried — might well 
make his bride distasteful to him. He flies her on 
the very day of their mariiage, most like a wilful, 
haughty, angry boy, but not like a profligate. On 
other points he is not so easily defended ; and 
Sliakspeare, we see, has not defended, but corrected 
him. The latter part of the play is more perplex- 
ing than pleasing. "We do not, indeed, repine with 
Dr. Johnson, that Bertram, after all his misde- 
meanors, is " dismissed to happiness ; " but, not- 

* Percy's Reliquee. 



172 CHARACTERS OP PASSION, ETC. 

■withstanding the clever defence that has been made 
for him, he has our pardon rather than our sym- 
pathy ; and for mine own part, I could find it 
easier to love Bertram as Helena does, than to ex- 
cuse hun ; her love for him is his best excuse. 



PERDITA. 

In Viola and Perdita the distinguishing traits arc 
the same — sentiment and elegance ; thus we as- 
sociate them together, though nothing can be more 
distinct to the fancy than the Doric grace of Per- 
dita, compared to the romantic sweetness of Viola. 
They are created out of the same materials, and 
are equal to each other in the tenderness, delicacy, 
and poetical beauty of the conception. They are 
both more imaginative than passionate ; but Per- 
dita is the more imaginative of the two. She is the 
union of the pastoral and romantic with the clas- 
sical and poetical, as if a dryad of the woods had 
turned shepherdess. The perfections with which 
the poet has so lavishly endowed her, sit upon her 
with a certain careless and picturesque grace, " as 
though they had fallen upon her unawares." Thus 
Belphoebe, in the Fairy Queen, issues from the 
flowering forest with hair and garments all be- 
sprinkled with the leaves and blossoms they had 
entangled in their flight ; and so arrayed by chance 
and " heedless hap," takes all hearts with " stately 



PERDITA. 173 

presence and with princely port," — most like to 
Perdita ! 

The story of Florlzel and Perdita is but an epi- 
sode in the " Winter's Tale ; " and the character of 
Perdita is properly kept subordinate to that of her 
mother, Hermione : yet the picture is perfectly 
finished in every part ; — Juliet herself is not more 
firmly and distinctly drawn. But the coloring in 
Perdita is more silvery light and delicate ; the per- 
vading sentiment more touched with the ideal; 
compared with Juliet, she is like a Guido hung be- 
side a Georgione, or one of Paesiello's airs heard 
after one of Mozart's. 

The qualities which impart to Perdita her distinct 
individuality, are the beautiful combination of the 
pastoral with the elegant — of simplicity with ele- 
vation — of spirit with sweetness. The exquisite 
delicacy of the picture is apparent. To under- 
stand and appreciate its effective tnith and 
nature, we should place Perdita beside some of 
the njonphs of Arcadia, or the Chloris' and Sylvias 
of the ItaUan pastorals, who, however graceful in 
themselves, when opposed to Perdita, seem to melt 
away into mere poetical abstractions ; — as, in 
Spenser, the fair but fictitious Florimel, which the 
subtle enchantress had moulded out of snow, " ver- 
meil tinctured," and informed with an airy spirit, 
that knew " all wiles of woman's wits," fades and 
dissolves away, when placed next to the real Flori- 
mel, in her warm, breathing, human loveliness. 

Perdita does not appear till the fourth act, and 



174 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

tlie whole of the character is developed in the 
course of a single scene, (the third,) with a com- 
pleteness of effect which leaves nothing to be 
required — nothing to be supplied. She is first 
introduced in the dialogue between herself and 
Florizel, where she compares her own lowly state 
to his princely rank, and expresses her fears of the 
issue of their unequal attachment. With all her 
timidity and her sense of the distance which sepa- 
rates her from her lover, she breathes not a single 
word which could lead us to impugn either her 
delicacy or her dignity. 

FLORIZEL,. 

These your unusual weeds to each part of you 
Do give a life — no shepherdess, but Flora 
Peering in April's front; this your sheep-shearmg 
Is as the meeting of the petty gods. 
And vou the queen on't. 

PEBDITA. 

Sir, my gracious lord, 

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ; 

pardon that I name them : your high self, 

The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured 

With a swain's bearing; and me, poor lowly maid, 

Most goddess-like prank' d up : — but that our feasts 

In every mess have folly, and the feeders 

Digest it with a custom, I should blush 

To see you so attired ; sworn, I think, 

To show myself a glass. 

The impression of her perfect beauty and airy 
elegance of demeanor is conveyed in two exquisite 
passages : — 



PERDITA. 175 

What you do 
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
I'd have you do it ever. When you sing, 
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms, 
Pray so,- and for the ordering your affairs 
To sing them too. "When you do dance, I wish you 
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own 
No other function. 

I take thy hand ; this hand 
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it; 
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow. 
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er. 

The artless manner in which her innate nobility 
of soul shines forth through her pastoral disguise, is 
thus brought before us at once : — 

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on the green sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something gi-eater than herself; 
Too noble for this place. 

Her natural loftiness of spirit breaks out where 
she is menaced and reviled by the King, as one 
whom his son has degraded himself by merely look- 
ing on ; she bears the royal frown without quailing ; 
but the moment he is gone, the immediate recollec- 
tion of herself, and of her humble state, of her hap- 
less love, is full of beauty, tenderness, and nature : — 

Even here undone ! 
I was much afeai-d : for once or twice, 
I was about to speak: and tell him plain! v 



176 CHARACTERS OF PASSIOX, ETC 

The self-same sun, that shines upon his court 
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
Looks on alike. 

Will't please, you Sir, be gone ? 
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you. 
Of your own state take care; this dream of mine — 
Being now awake — I'U queen it no inch further, 
But milk my ewes, and weep. 

How often have I told you 'twould be thus ! 
How often said, my dignity would last 
But till 'twere known ! 

FLORIZEL. 

It cannot faU, but by 
The violation of my faith ; and then 
Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together 
And mar the seeds within ! Lift up thy looks. 
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
Be thereat glean' d! for aU the sun sees, or 
The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide 
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
To thee, my fair beloved ! 

Pcrdita has another characteristic, which lends 
to the poetical delicacy of the delineation a certain 
strength and moral elevation, which is peculiarly 
striking. It is that sense of truth and rectitude, 
that upright simplicity of mind, which disdains all 
crooked and indirect means, which would not stoop 
for an instant to dissemblance, and is mingled with 
a noble confidence in her love and in her lover. 
In this spirit is her answer to Camilla, who says, 
courtier-like, — 



PERDITA. 177 

Besides, you know 
Prosperity's the very bond of love; 
Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together, 
Affliction altei's. 

To which she replies, — 

One of these is true ; 
I think, affliction may subdue the cheek, • 
But not take in the mind. 

In that elegant scene where she receives the 
guests at the sheep-shearing, and distributes the 
flowers, there is in the full flow of the poetry, a 
most beautiful and striking touch of individual 
character : but here it is impossible to mutilate the 

dialogue. 

Eeverend sirs, 
For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep 
Seeming and savor all the winter long; 
Grace and remembrance be to you both, 
And welcome to our shearing ! 

POLIXENES. 

Shepherdess, 
(A fair one are yT)u,) well you fit our ages 
With flowers of winter. 

PERPITA. 

Sir, the year growing ancient. 
Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season 
Are our carnations, and streaked gilliflowers, 
Which some call nature's bastards : of that kinji 
Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not 
To get slips of them. 
12 



178 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

POLTXENES. 

Wherefore, gentle maiden, 
Do you neglect them ? 

PERDITA. 

For I have heard it said. 
There is an art, which in their piedness, shares 
With great creating nature. 

POLIXENES. 

Say there be ; 
Yet nature is made better by no mean 
But nature makes that mean; so o'er that art 
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
A gentle scion to the wildest stock ; 
And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
By bud of nobler race. This is an art 
Which does mend nature, change it rather ; but 
The art itself is nature. 

PERDITA. 

So it is. 

POLIXENES. 

Then make your garden rich in gilliflowers, 
And do not call them bastards. 

PERDITA. 

I'U not put 
The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; 
No more than were I painted, I would wish 
This youth should say 'twere well. 

It has been well remarked of this passage, that 
Perdita does not attempt to answer the reasoning 



PERDITA. 1 79 

of Polixenes : she gives up the argument, but, 
woman-like, retains her own opinion, or rather, her 
sense of right, unshaken by his sophistry. She 
goes on in a strain of poetry, which comes over the 
soul hke music and fragrance mingled : we seem to 
inhale the blended odors of a thousand flowers, till 
the sense faints with their sweetness ; and she con- 
cludes with a touch of passionate sentiment, which 
melts into the very heart : — 

Proserpina! 
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall 
From Dis's wagon! daffodils. 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
The crown imperial ; lilies of aU kinds, 
The flower-de-luce being one ! 0, these I lack, 
To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend 
To strew him o'er and o'er. 

« 

FLORIZEL. 

What ! like a corse ? 

PERDITA. 

No, like a bank, for Love to lie and play on ; 
Not like a corse: or if, — not to be buried. 
But quick, and in mine arms ! 

This love of truth, this conscientiousness, which 
forms so distinct a feature in the character of Per- 



180 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

dlta, and mingles with its picturesque delicacy a 
certain firmness and dignity, is maintained con- 
sistently to the last. When the two lovers fly 
together from Bohemia, and take refuge in the 
court of Leontes, the real father of Perdita, Florizel 
presents himself before the king with a feigned tale, 
in which he has been artfully instructed by the old 
counsellor Camillo. During this scene, Perdita 
does not utter a word. In the strait in which they 
are placed, she cannot deny the story which Florizel 
relates — she will not confirm it. Her silence, in 
spite of all the compliments and greetings of 
Leontes, has a peculiar and characteristic grace ; 
and, at the conclusion of the scene, when they are 
betrayed, the truth bursts from her as if instinc- 
tively, and she exclaims, with emotion, — 

The heavens set spies upon us — will not have 
Our contract celebrated. 

After this scene, Perdita says very little. The 
description of her grief, while listening to the re- 
lation of her mother's death, — 

" One of the prettiest touches of all, was, when at the 
relation of the queen's death, Avith the manner how she 
came by it, how attentiveness wounded her daughter: till 
from one sign of dolor to another, she did, with an alas ! 
I would fain say, bleed tears: " — 

her deportment too as she stands gazing on the 
statue of Hermione, fixed in wonder, admiration, 
and sorrow, as if she too were marble — 



VIOLA. 181 

royal piece ! 
There's magic in thy majesty, which has 
From thy admiring daughter ta'en the spirits, 
Standing like stone beside thee ! 

are touches of character conveyed indirectly, and 
which serve to give a more finished eflfect to this 
beautiful picture. 



VIOLA. 

As the innate dignity of Perdita pierces through 
her rustic disguise, so the exquisite refinement of 
Viola triumphs over her masculine attire. Viola 
is, perhaps, in a degree less elevated and ideal 
than Perdita, but with a touch of sentiment more 
profound and heart-stirring ; she is " deep-learned 
in the lore of love," — at least theoretically, — and 
speaks as masterly on the subject as Perdita does 
of flowers. 

DUKE. 

How dost thou like this tune ? 

VIOLA. 

It gives a very echo to the seat 
Where love is thron'd. 

And again, 

If I did love you in my master's flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life — 
In your denial I would find no sense, 
I would not understand it. 



182 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

OLIVIA. 
Why, what would you do ? 

VIOLA. 

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
And call upon my soul within the house; 
Write loyal cantons * of contemned love, 
And sing them loud even in the dead of night. 
Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 
And make babbling gossip of the air 
Cry out, Olivia ! you should not rest 
Between the elements of air and earth, 
But you should pity me. 

OLIVIA. 

You might do much. 

The situation and the character of Viola have 
been censured for their want of consistency and 
probability ; it is therefore worth while to examine 
how far tliis criticism is true. As for her situation 
In the drama, (of which she is properly the heroine,) 
it is shortly this. She is shipwrecked on the coast 
of Illyria : she is alone and without protection in a 
strange country. She wishes to enter into the ser- 
vice of the Countess Olivia ; but she is assured that 
this is impossible ; " for the lady having recently 
lost an only and beloved brother, has abjured the 
sight of men, has shut herself up in her palace, and 
will admit no kind of suit." In this perplexity, 
Viola remembers to have heard her father speak 
with praise and admiration of Orsino, the Duke of 

* i. e. canzons^ songs 



VIOLA. 183 

the country ; and having ascertained that he is not 
married, and that therefore his court is not a proper 
asylum for her in her feminine character, she at- 
tires herself in the disguise of a page, as the best 
protection against unci\il comments, till she can 
gain some tidings of her brother. 

If we carry our thoughts back to a romantic and 
chivalrous age, there is surely sufficient probability 
here for all the pui-poses of poetry. To pursue the 
thread of Viola's destiny ; — she is engaged in the 
service of the Duke, whom she finds " fancy-sick " 
for the love of Olivia. We are left to infer, (for so 
it is hinted in the first scene,) that this Duke — who 
with his accomplishments, and his personal attrac- 
tions, his taste for music, his chivalrous tenderness, 
and his unrequited love, is really a very fascinating 
and poetical personage, though a little passionate 
and fantastic — had already made some impression 
on Viola's imagination ; and when she comes to 
play the confidante, and to be loaded with favors 
and kindness in her assumed character, that she 
should be touched by a passion made up of pity, 
admiration, gratitude, and tenderness, does not, I 
think, in any way detract from the genuine sweet- 
ness and delicacy of her character, for " she never 
told her love." 

Now all this, as the critic wisely observes, may 
not present a very just picture of life ; and it may 
also fail to impart any moral lesson for the especial 
profit of well-bred young ladies : but is it not in 
truth and in nature ? Did it ever fail to charm or 



184 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

to interest, to seize on the coldest fancy, to touch 
the most insensible heart ? 

Yiola then is the chosen favorite of the enamour- 
ed Duke, and becomes his messenger to Olivia, and 
the interpreter of his sufferings to that inaccessible 
beauty. In her character of a youthful page, she 
attracts the favor of 01i\aa, and excites the jealousy 
of her lord. The situation is critical and delicate ; 
but how exquisitely is the character of Viola fitted 
to her part, carrying her through the ordeal with 
all the inward and spiritual grace of modesty! 
What beautiful propriety in the distinction drawn 
between Rosalind and Viola ! The wild sweetness, 
the frolic humor which sports free and unblamed 
amid the shades of Ardennes, would ill become 
Viola, whose playfulness is assumed as part of her 
disguise as a court-page, and is guarded by the 
strictest delicacy. She has not, like Rosalind, a 
saucy enjoyment in her own incognito ; her disguise 
does not sit so easily upon her ; her heart does not 
beat freely under it. As in the old ballad, where 
" Sweet William " is detected weeping in secret 
over her " man's array," * so in Viola, a sweet con- 
sciousness of her feminine nature is for ever break- 
ing through her masquerade : — 

And on her cheek is ready with a blush 
Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes 
The youthiful Phoebus. 

* Percy's Reliques, vol. iii.— see the ballad of the " Lady turn- 
ing Serving Man." 



185 



She plays her part well, but never forgets nor 
allows us to forget, that she is playing a part. 

OLIVIA. 

Are you a comedian ? 

VIOLA. 

No, my profound heart ! and yet by the very fangs of 
malice I swear, I am not that I play ! 

And thus she comments on it : — 

Disguise, I see thou art wickedness, 
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much ; 
How easy is it for the proper false 
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! 
Alas ! our frailty is the cause, not we. 

The feminine cowardice of Viola, which will not 
allow her even to aifect a courage becoming her 
attire,— her horror at the idea of drawing a sword, 
is very natural and characteristic ; and produces a 
most humorous effect, even at the very moment it 
charms and interests us. 

Contrasted with the deep, silent, patient love of 
Viola for the Duke, we have the lady-like wilful- 
ness of Olivia ; and her sudden passion, or rather 
fancy, for the disguised page, takes so beautiful a 
coloring of poetry and sentiment, that we do not 
think her forward. Olivia is like a princess of 
romance, and has all the privileges of one ; she is, 
like Portia, high born and high bred, mistress over 
her servants — but not like Portia, " queen o'er her- 
self" She has never in her life been opposed ; the 
first contradiction, therefore, rouses all the woman 



186 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

in her, and turns a caprice into a lieadlong pas- 
sion ; yet she apologizes for herself. 

I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 
And laid mine honor too unchary out ; 
There's something in me that reproves my fault; 
But such a headstrong potent fault it is, 
That it but mocks reproof! 

And in the midst of her self-abandonment, never 
allows us to contemn, even while we pity her : — 

What shall you ask of me that I'll deny. 
That honor, saved, may upon asking give ? 

The distance of rank wliieh separates the 
Countess from the youthful page — the real sex of 
Viola — the dignified elegance of Olivia's deport- 
ment, except where passion gets the better of her 
pride — her consistent coldness towards the Duke — 
the description of that "smooth, discreet, and 
stable bearing" with which she rules her house- 
hold — her generous care for her steward Malvollo, 
in the midst of her own distress, — all these circum- 
stances raise Olivia in our fancy, and render her 
caprice for the page a source of amusement and 
interest, not a subject of reproach. Twelfth Nu/ht 
is a genuine comedy ; — a perpetual spring of the 
gayest and the sweetest fancies. In artificial so- 
ciety men and women are divided into castes and 
classes, and it is rarely that extremes in character 
or manners can approximate. To blend into one 
harmonious picture the utmost grace and refine- 



ornELiA. 187 

ment of sentiment, and the broadest effects of 
humor ; the most poignant wit, and the most in- 
dulgent benignity ; — in short, to bring before us in 
the same scene, Viola and Olivia, with MalvoHo 
and Sir Toby, belonged only to Nature and to 
Shakspeare. 

OPHELIA. 

A woman's affections, however strong, are senti- 
ments, when they run smooth ; and become pas- 
sions only when opposed. 

In Juliet and Helena, love is depicted as a pas- 
sion, properly so called ; that is, a natural impulse, 
throbbing in the heart's blood, and mingling with 
the ver}' sources of life ; — a sentiment more or less 
modified by the imagination ; a strong abiding 
principle and motive, excited by resistance, acting 
upon the will, animating all the other faculties, and 
again influenced by them. This is the most com- 
plex aspect of love, and in these two characters, it 
is depicted in colors at once the most various, the 
most intense, and the most brilhant. 

In Viola and Perdita, love, being less complex, 
appears more refined; more a sentiment than a 
passion — a compound of impulse and fancy, while 
the reflective powers and moral energies are more 
faintly developed. The same remark applies also 
to Julia and Silvia, in the Two Gentlemen of 



188 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

Verona, and, in a greater degree, to Hermia and 
Helena in the Midsummer Night's Dream. In the 
two latter, though perfectly discriminated, love 
takes the visionary fanciful cast, which belongs to 
the whole piece ; it is scarcely a passion or a senti- 
ment, but a dreamy enchantment, a reverie, which 
a fairy spell dissolves or fixes at pleasure. 

But there was yet another possible modification 
of the sentiment, as combined with female nature ; 
and this Shakspeare has shown to us. He has por- 
trayed two beings, in whom all intellectual and 
moral energy is in a manner latent, if existing ; in 
whom love is an unconscious impulse, and imagina- 
tion lends the external charm and hue, not the in- 
ternal power ; in whom the feminine character ap- 
pears resolved into its very elementary principles 
— as modesty, grace,* tenderness. Without these 
a woman is no woman, but a thing which, luckily, 
wants a name yet ; with these, though every other 
faculty were passive or deficient, she might still be 
herself. These are the inherent qualities with 
which God sent us into the world : they may be 
perverted by a bad education — they may be ob- 
' scured by harsh and evil destinies — they may be 
overpowered by the development of some particular 
mental power, the predominance of some passion ; 

* By this word, as used here, I would be understood to mean 
that inexpressible something within the soul, which tends to the 
good, the beautiful, the true, and is the antipodes to the vulgar, 
the violent, and the false ; — th<at which we see diffused externally 
over the form and movements, where there is perfect innocence 
and unconsciousness, as in children. 



OPHELIA. 189 

— but they are never wholly crushed out of the 
woman's soul, while it retains those faculties which 
render it responsible to its Creator. Shakspeare 
then has shown us that these elemental feminine 
qualities, modesty, grace, tenderness, when ex- 
panded under genial influences, suffice to constitute 
a perfect and happy human creature : such is Mi- 
randa. When thrown alone amid harsh and ad- 
verse destinies, and amid the trammels and corrup- 
tions of society, without energy to resist, or will to 
act, or strength to endure, the end must needs be 
desolation. 

Opheha — poor Ophelia ! O far too soft, too 
good, too fair, to be cast among the briers of this 
working-day world, and fall and bleed upon the 
thorns of life ! What shall be said of her ? for 
eloquence is mute before her ! Like a strain of sad 
sweet music which comes floating by us on the 
wings of night and silence, and which we rather 
feel than hear — like the exhalation of the violet 
dying even upon the sense it charms — like the 
snow-flake dissolved in air before it has caught a 
stain of earth — Uke the light surf severed from the 
billow, which a breath disperses — such is the char- 
acter of Opheha : so exquisitely delicate, it seems 
as if a touch would profane it ; so sanctified in our 
thoughts by the last and worst of human woes, that 
we scarcely dare to consider it too deeply. The 
love of Ophelia, which she never once confesses, is 
like a secret which we have stolen from her, and 
which ought to die upon our hearts as upon her 



190 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. ^V 

own. H^r sorrows ask., not woro^Dut tears ; an^^ 
her '^adn^s has ^precisely the sSie effect that 
would be^^'^rq^uced %y the spectacle of real in- 
sanity, if brought before us : we feel inclined to 
turn away, and veil our eyes in reverential pity, 
and too painful sympathy. 

Beyond every character that Shakspeare has 
drawn, (Hamlet alone excepted,) that of Ophelia 
makes us forget the poet in his own creation. 
Whenever we bring her to mind, it is with the 
same exclusive sense of her real existence, without 
reference to the wondrous power which called her 
into life. The effect (and what an effect !) is pro- 
duced by means so simple, by strokes so few, and 
so unobtrusive, that we take no thought of them. 
It is so purely natural and unsophisticated, yet so 
profound in its pathos, that, as HazUtt observes, it 
takes us back to the old ballads ; we forget that, in 
its perfect artlessness, it is the supreme and con- 
summate triumph of art. 

The situation of Ophelia in the story,* is that of 
a young girl who, at an early age, is brought fro. 
a hfe of privacy into the circle of a court — a cou. 
such as we read of in those early times, at once 
rude, magnificent, and corrupted. She is placed 
immediately about the person of the queen, and is 

* i. e. In the story of the drama : for in the original "History 
of Amleth the Dane," from which Shakspeare drew his materials, 
there is a woman introduced who is emploj'ed as an instrument 
to seduce Amleth, hut not even the germ of the character of 
Ophelia. 



OPHELIA. 191 

apparently her favorite attendant. The affection 
of the wicked queen for this gentle and innocent 
creature, is one of those beautiful redeeming 
touches, one of those penetrating glances into 
the secret springs of natural and feminine feeling 
which we find only in Shakspeare. Gertrude, who 
is not so wholly abandoned but that there remains 
within her heart some sense of the virtue she has 
forfeited, seems to look wi:h a kind yet melancholy 
complacency on the lovely being she has destined 
for the bride of her son ; and the scene in which 
she is introduced as scattering flowers on the grave 
of Ophelia, is one of those effects of contrast in 
poetry, in character and in feeling, at once natural 
and unexpected ; which fill the eye, and make the 
heart swell and tremble within itself — like the 
nightingales singing in the grove of the Furies in 
Sophocles.* 

Again, in the father of Ophelia, the Lord Cham- 
berlain Polonius — the shrewd, wary, subtle, pom- 
pous, garrulous old courtier — ^have we not the very 
fan who would send his son into the world to see 
.u'l, learn all it could teach of good and evil, but 
keep his only daughter as far as possible from 
every taint of that world he knew so well ? So that 
when she is brought to the court, she seems in her 
loveliness and perfect purity, like a seraph that 
had wandered out of bounds, and yet breathed on 
earth the air of paradise. When her father and 
her brother find it necessary to warn her simplicity, 

* In the CEdipus Coloneus 



192 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. • 

give her lessons of worldly wisdom, and instruct 
her " to be scanter of her maiden presence," for 
that Hamlet's vows of love " but breathe Hke 
sanctified and pious bonds, the better to beguile," 
we feel at once that it comes too late ; for from the 
moment she appears on the scene amid the dark 
conflict of crime and vengeance, and supernatural 
terrors, we know what must be her destiny. Once, 
at Murano, I saw a dove caught in a tempest ; per- 
haps it was young, and either lacked strength of 
wing to reach its home, or the instinct which 
teaches to shun the brooding storm ; but so it was 
— and I watched it, pitying, as it flitted, poor bird ! 
hither and thither, with its silver pinions shining 
against the black thunder-cloud, till, after a few 
giddy whirls, it fell bUnded, affrighted, and bewil- 
dered, into the turbid wave beneath, and was swal- 
lowed up forever. It reminded me then of the 
fate of Ophelia ; and now when I think of her, I 
see again before me that poor dove, beating with 
weary wing, bewildered amid the storm. It is the 
helplessness of Ophelia, arising merely from her 
innocence, and pictured without any indication of 
weakness, which melts us with such profound pity. 
She is so young, that neither her mind nor her per- 
son have attained maturity ; she is not aware of 
the nature of her own feelings ; they are prema- 
turely developed 'in their full force before she has 
strength to bear them ; and love and grief together 
rend and shatter the frail texture of her existence, 
like the burning fluid poured into a crystal vase. 



OPHELIA. 193 

She says very little, and what she does say seems 
rather intended to hide than to reveal the emotions 
of her heart ; yet in those few words we are made 
as perfectly acquainted with her character, and 
with what is passing in her mind, as if she had 
thrown forth her soul with all the glowing eloquence 
of Juliet. Passion with Juliet seems innate, a part 
of her being, " as dwells the gathered lightning in 
the cloud ; " and we never fancy her but with the 
dark splendid eyes and Titian-like complexion of 
the south. While in Ophelia we recognize as dis- 
tinctly the pensive, fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter 
of the north, whose heart seems to vibrate to the 
passion she has inspired, more conscious of being 
loved than of loving ; and yet, alas ! loving in the 
silent depths of her young heart far more than she 
is loved. 

When her brother warns her against Hamlet's 
importunities — 

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor, 
Hold it a fashion, and a toy of blood, 
A violet in the youth of primy nature. 
Forward not permanent, sweet not lasting. 
The perfume and the suppliance of a minute — 
No more ! 

she replies with a kind of half consciousness — 

No more but so ? 

LAERTES. 

Think it no more. 
13 



194 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 

He concludes his admonition witli that most 
beautiful, passage, in which the soundest sense, the 
most excellent advice, is conveyed in a strain of 
the most exquisite poetry. 

The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 
If she unmasli her beauty to the moon : 
Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes. 
The canker galls the infants of the spring 
Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd: 
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, 
Contagious blastments are most imminent. 

She answers with the same modesty, yet with a 
kind of involuntary avowal, that his fears are not 
altogether without cause : — 

I shall the effect of this good lesson keep 

As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, 

Do not, as some ungracioiis pastors do. 

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven ; 

Whilst, like the puff'd and reckless libertine, 

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 

And recks not his own read.* 

When her father, immediately afterwards, cate- 
chizes her on the same subject, he extorts from her, 
in short sentences, uttered with bashful reluctance, 
the confession of Hamlet's love for her, but not 
a word of her love for him. The whole scene 
is managed with inexpressible delicacy: it is 
one of those instances, common in Shakspeare, 
in which we are allowed to perceive what is 

* " And recks not his own read," t. c. heeda not his own lesson. 



OPHELIA. 195 

passing in the mind of a person, without any con- 
sciousness on their p art. Only Ophelia herself is 
unaware that while she is admitting the extent of 
Hamlet's courtship, she is also betraying how deep 
is the impression it has made, how entire the love 
with which it is returned. 



POLOXIUS. 

What is between you ? give me up the ti'uth ! 

OPHELIA. 

He hath, my lord, of late, made many tenders 
Of his affection to me. 

poLOxros. 
Affection ! poh ! you speak like a green girl. 
Unsifted in such perilous circumstances. 
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them ? 

OPHELIA. 

I do not know, my lord, what I should think. 

POLONIUS. 

Marry, I'll teach you: think yourself a baby; 
That you have taken these tenders for true pay 
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly ; 
Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase. 
Wronging it thus) you'll tender me a fool. 

OPHELIA.' 

My lord, he hath importun'd me with love 
In honorable fashion. 

POLONIUS. 

Ay, fashion you may call it ; go to, go to. 



196 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

OPHELIA. 

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, 
With almost all the holy vows of heaven. 

POLONIUS. 

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. 

This is for all: 
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth 
Have you so slander any moment's leisure 
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet, 
Look to't, I charge you: come your ways. 

OPHELIA. 

I shall obey, my lord. • 

Besides its intrinsic loveliness, the ctaracter of 
Ophelia has a relatiye; beauty and delicacy when 
considered in relation j|m thaji of Hamlet, which is 
the delineation of a man of genius in contest with 
the powers of this world, TUe^ "weakness of volition, 
the instability of purpose, the contemplative sen- 
sibility, the subtlety of thought, always shrinking 
i n action, and always occupied in " thinking too 
preci ely on the event," united to immense intel- 
lectual f ower, render him unspeakably interesting : 
and yet I doubt whether any woman, who would 
have been cr^ able of understanding and appreciat>- 
ing such a man, would have passionately loved him. 
Let us for a mou ent imagine any one of Shak- 
speare's most beauli 'd and striking female char- 
acters in immediate con. ection with Hamlet. The 
gentle Desdemona would never have despatched 
her household cares- in haste, :o listen to his philo- 



OPHELIA. 197 

sophical speculations, his dark conflicts with his 
own spirit. Such a woman as Portia would have 
studied him ; Juliet would have pitied him ; Rosa- 
lind would have turned him over with a smile to 
the melancholy Jacques ; Beatrice would have 
laughed at him outright; Isabel would have rea- 
soned with him ; Miranda could but have won- 
dered at him : but Ophelia loves him. Ophelia, 
the young, fair, inexperienced girl, facile to 
every impression, fond in her simplicity, and cred- 
ulous in her innocence, loves Hamlet; not from 
what he is in himself, but for that which appears 
to her — the gentle, accomplished prince, upon 
whom she has been accustomed to see all eyes 
fixed in hope and admiration, "the expectancy 
and rose of the fair state," vlie star of the court in 
which she moves, the first who has ever whispered 
soft vows in her ear : and what can be more 
natural ? 

But it is not singular, that while no one enter- 
tains a doubt of Ophelia's love for Hamlet — though 
never once expressed by herself, or asserted by 
others, in the whole course of the drama — yet it is 
a subject of dispute whether Hamlet loves Ophelia, 
though she herself allows that he had importuned 
her with love, and " had given countenance to his 
suit with almost all the holy vows of heaven ; " al- 
though in the letter which Polonius intercepted, 
Hamlet declares that he loves her " best, O most 
best ! " — though he asserts himself, with the wildest 
vehemence, — 



198 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ^16. 

I lov'd Ophelia; forty thousand brothers 
Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
Make up my sum: 

— still I have heard the question canvassed ; I have 
even heard it denied that Hamlet did love Ophelia. 
The author of the finest remarks I have yet seen 
on the play and character of Hamlet, leaiis to this 
opinion. As the observations I allude to are con- 
tained in a periodical publication, and may not be 
at hand for immediate reference, I shall indulge 
myself (and the reader no less) by quoting the 
opening paragraphs of this noble piece of criticism, 
upon the principle, and for the reason I have al- 
ready stated in the introduction. 

" We take up a play, and ideas come rolling in 
upon us, like waves impelled by a strong wind. 
There is in the ebb and flow of Shakspeare's soul 
all the grandeur of a mighty operation of nature ; 
and when we think or speak of him, it should be 
with humlHty where we do not understand, and a 
conviction that it is rather to the narrowness of our 
own mind than to any failing in the art of the great 
magician, that we ought to attribute any sense of 
weakness, which may assail us during the contem- 
plation of his created worlds. 

" Shakspeare himself, had he even been as great 
a critic as a poet, could not have written a regular 
dissertation upon Hamlet. So ideal, and yet so 
real an existence, could have been shadowed out 
only in the colors of poetry. When a character 
deals solely or chiefly with this world and its events, 



OPHELIA. 199 

when It acts and is acted upon by objects that have 
a palpable existence, we see it distinctly, as if it 
were cast in a material mould, as if it partook of 
the fixed and settled lineaments of the things on 
which it lavishes its sensibilities and its passions. 
We see in such cases the vision of an individual 
soul, as we see the vision of an individual counte- 
nance. We can describe both, and can let a 
stranger into our knowledge. But how tell in 
words, so pure, so fine, so ideal an abstraction as 
Hamlet ? AVe can, indeed, figure to ourselves gen- 
erally his princely form, that outshone all others in 
manly beauty, and adorn it with the consummation 
of all liberal accomphshment. We can behold in 
every look, every gesture, every motion, the future 
king,— 

The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword, 
Th' expectancy and rose of the fair state ; 
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, 
Th' observ'd of all observers. 

" But when we would penetrate into his spirit, 
meditate on those things on which he meditates, ac- 
company him even unto the brink of eternity, 
fluctuate with him on the ghastly sea of despair, 
soar with him into the purest and serenest regions 
of human thought, feel with him the curse of be- 
holding iniquity, and the troubled delight of think- 
ing on innocence, and gentleness, and beauty ; 
come with him from all the glorious dreams cher- 
ished by a noble spirit in the halls of wisdom and 



2(70 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

philosophy, of a sudden into the gloomy courts of 
sin, and incest, and murder ; shudder with him 
over the broken and shattered fragments of all the 
fairest creations of his fancy, — be borne with him 
at once, from calm, and lofty, and delighted specu- 
lations, into the very heart of fear, and horror, and 
tribulations, — have the agonies and the guilt of our 
mortal world brought into immediate contact with 
the world beyond the grave, and the influence of 
an awful shadow hanging forever on our thoughts, — 
be present at a fearful combat between all the stir- 
red-up passions of humanity in the soul of man, a 
combat in which one and all of these passions are 
alternately victorious and overcome ; I say, that 
when we are thus placed and acted upon, how is it 
possible to draw a character of this sublime drama, 
or of the mysterious being who is its moving spirit ? 
In him, his character and situation, there is a con- 
centration of all the interests that belong to human- 
ity. There is scarcely a trait of frailty or of gran- 
deur, which may have endeared to us our most 
beloved friends in real life, that is not to be found 
in Hamlet. Undoubtedly Shakspeare loved him 
beyond all his other creations. Soon as he appears 
on the stage we are satisfied : when absent we long 
for his return. This is the only play which exists 
almost altogether in the character of one single 
person. Who ever knew a Hamlet in real life ? 
yet who, ideal as the character is, feels not its 
reality ? This is the wonder. We love him not, 
we think of him, not because he is witty, because 



OPHELIA. 201 

he was melancholy, because he "was filial ; but we 
love him because he existed, and was himself. This 
is the sum total of the impression. I believe that, 
of every other character, either in tragic or epic 
poetry, the story makes part of the conception ; but 
of Hamlet, the deep and pei-manent interest is the 
conception of himself This seems to belong, not 
to the character being more perfectly drawn, but 
to there being a more intense conception of individ- 
ual human life than perhaps any other human 
composition. Here is a being with springs of 
thought, and feeling, and action, deeper than we 
can search. These springs rise from an unknown 
depth, and in that depth there seems to be a one- 
ness of being wliich we cannot distinctly behold, 
but which we believe to be there ; and thus irrec- 
oncilable circumstances, floating on the surface of 
his actions, have not the effect of making us doubt 
the truth of the general picture." * 

This is all most admirable, most eloquent, most 
true ! but the critic subsequently declares, that 
"there is nothing in Ophelia which could make 
her the object of an engrossing passion to so ma- 
jestic a spirit as Hamlet." 

Now, though it be with reluctance, and even 
considerable mistrust of myself^ that I differ from 
a critic who can thus feel and write, I do not think 
so : — I do think, with submission, that the love of 
Hamlet for Ophelia is deep, is real, and is precisely 

* Blackwood's Magazine, toI. ii. 



202 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

the kind of love whicli such a man as Hamlet 
would feel for such a woman as Ophelia. 

When the heathen would represent their Jove 
as clothed in all his Olympian terrors, they mounted 
him on the back of an eagle, and armed him with 
the lightnings ; but when in Holy Writ the Su- 
preme Being is described as coming in his glory, 
He is upborne on the wings of cherubim, and his 
emblem is the dove. Even so our blessed religion, 
which has revealed deeper mysteries in the human 
soul than ever were dreamt of by philosophy till 
she went hand-in-hand with faith, has taught us to 
pay that worship to the symbols of purity and in- 
nocence, which in darker times was paid to the 
manifestations of power : and therefore do I think 
that the mighty intellect, the capacious, soaring, 
penetrating genius of Hamlet may be represented, 
without detracting from its grandeur, as reposing 
upon the tender virgin innocence of Ophelia, with 
all that deep delight with which a superior nature 
contemplates the goodness which is at once perfect 
in itself, and of itself unconscious. That Hamlet 
regards Ophelia with tliis kind of tenderness, — that 
he loves her with a love as intense as can belong to 
a nature in which there is, (I think,) much more of 
contemplation and sensibility than action or pas- 
sion — is the feeling and conviction with which I 
have always read the play of Hamlet. 

As to whether the mind of Hamlet be, or be not, 
touched with madness — tliis is another point at 
issue among critics, philosophers, ay, and physi- 



OPHELIA. 203 

cians. To me it seems that he is not so far disor- 
dered as to cease to be a responsible Imman being 
^-that were too pitiable: but rather that his mind 
is shaken from its equilibrium, and bewildered by 
the horrors of his situation — horrors "which his fine 
and subtle intellect, his strong imagination, and his 
tendency to melancholy, at once exaggerate, and 
take fi'om him the power either to endure, or " by 
opposing, end them." We do not see him as a 
lover, nor as Ophelia first beheld him ; for the days 
when he importuned her with love were before the 
opening of the drama — before his father's spirit re- 
visited the earth ; but we behold him at once in a 
sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, of ter- 
rors. Without remorse, he endures all it? horrors ; 
without guilt, he endures all its shame. A loathing 
of the crime he is called on to revenge, which re- 
venge is again abhorrent to his nature, has set him 
at strife with himself; the supernatural visitation 
has perturbed his soul to its inmost depths; all 
things else, all interests, all hopes, all affections, 
appear as futile, when the majestic shadow comes 
lamenting from its place of tonnent " to shake him 
with thoughts beyond the reaches of his soul !" 
His love for Ophelia is then ranked by himself 
among those trivial, fond records which he has 
deeply sworn to erase from his heart and brain. 
He has no tliought to link his terrible destiny with 
hers : he cannot marry her : he cannot reveal to 
her, young, gentle, innocent as she is, the tenific 
influences which have chansed the whole current 



204 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

of his life and purposes. In his distraction he over- 
acts the painful part to which he had tasked him- 
self; he is like that judge of the Areopagus, who 
being occupied with graver matters, flung from 
him the little bird which had sought refuge in his 
bosom, and with such angry violence, that unwit- 
tingly he killed it. 

In the scene with Hamlet,* in which he madly 
outrages her and upbraids himself, Ophelia says 
very little : there are two short sentences in which 
she replies to his wild, abrupt discourse : — 

HAMLET. 

I did love you once. 

OrHELIA. 

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. 

HAMLET. 

You should not have believed me: for virtue cannot so 
inocculate our old stock, but we shall relish of it. I loved 
you not. 

OPHELIA. 

I was the more deceived. 

Those who ever heard Mrs. Siddons read the play 
of Hamlet, cannot forget the world of meaning, of 
love, of sorrow, of despair, conveyed in these two 
simple phrases. Here, and in the soliloquy after- 
wards, where she says, — 

And I of ladies most deject and wretched, 
That sucked the lioney of his music vows, 

are the only allusions to herself and her own feel- 

* Act iii. scene 1. 



OPHELIA. 205 

ings in the course of the play ; and tbese, uttered 
almost without consciousness on her own part, con- 
tain the revelation of a life of love, and disclose 
the secret burthen of a heart bursting with its own 
unuttered grief. She believes Hamlet crazed ; she 
is repulsed, she is forsaken, she is outraged, where 
she had bestowed her young heart, with all its hopes 
and wishes ; her father is slain by the hand of her 
lover, as it is supposed, in a paroxysm of insanity : 
she is entangled inextricably in a web of horrors 
which she cannot even comprehend, and the result 
seems inevitable. 

Of her subsequent madness, what can be said ? 
What an affecting — what an astonishing picture of 
a mind utterly, hopelessly wrecked ! — past hope — 
past cure ! There is the frenzy of excited passion 
— ithere is the madness caused by intense and con- 
tinued thought — there is the delirium of fevered 
nerves; but Ophelia's madness is distinct from 
these : it is not the suspension, but the utter destruc- 
tion of the reasoning powers ; it is the total imbecil- 
ity which, as medical people well know, frequently 
follows some terrible shock to the spirits. Con- 
stance is frantic ; Lear is mad ; Ophelia is insane. 
Her sweet mind lies in fragments before us — a piti- 
ful spectacle ! Her wild, rambling fancies ; her 
aimless, broken speeches; her quick transitions 
from gayet}^ to sadness — each equally purposeless 
and causeless ; her snatches of old ballads, such as 
perhaps her nurse sung her to sleep with in her in- 
fancy — are all so true to the life, that we forget to 



206 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC 

wonder, and can only weep. It belonged to Shak- 
speare alone so to temper such a picture that we 
can endure to dwell upon it : — 

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, 
She turns to favor and to prettiness. 

That in her madness she should exchange her 
bashful silence for empty babbling, her sweet 
maidenly demeanor for the impatient restlessness 
that spurns at straws, and say and sing precisely 
what she never would or could have uttered had 
she been in possession of her reason, is so far from 
being an impropriety, that it is an additional stroke 
of nature. It is one of the sjTnptoms of this species 
of insanity, as we are assured by physicians. I 
have myself known one instance in the case of a 
young Quaker girl, whose character resembled that 
of Ophelia, and whose malady arose from a similar 
cause. 

The whole action of this play sweeps past us 
like a torrent, which hurries along in its dark and 
resistless course all the personages of the drama 
towards a catastrophe that is not brought about by 
human will, but seems like an abyss ready dug to 
receive them, where the good and the wicked are 
whelmed together.* As the character of Hamlet 
has been compared, or rather contrasted, with the 
Greek Orestes, being like him, called on to avenge 
a crime by a crune, tormented by remorseful doubts, 
and pursued by distraction, so, to me, the character 

* Goethe. See the analysis of Hamlet in Wilhelm Mcister. 



MIRANDA. 207 

of Opliolia bears a certain relation to that of the 
Greek Iphigcnia,* with the same strong distmction 
between the classical and the romantic conception 
of the portrait. Iphigenia led forth to sacrifice, 
with her unresisting tenderness, her mournful 
sweetness, her virgin innocence, is doomed to perish 
by that relentless power, which has linked her 
destiny with crimes and contests, in which she has 
no part but as a sufierer ; and even so, poor 
Opheha, " divided from herself and her fair judg- 
ment," appears here like a spotless victim offered 
up to the mysteiious and inexorable fates. 

" For it is the property of crime to extend its 
mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to ex- 
tend its blessings over many that deserve them 
not, while frequently the author of one or the other 
is not, as far as we can see, either punished or 
rewarded. "f But there's a heaven above us ! 



J\nRANDA. 

We might have deemed it impossible to go beyond 
Viola, Perdita, and Ophelia, as pictures of feminine 
beauty ; to exceed the one in tender delicacy, the 
other in ideal grace, and the last in simplicity, — 
if Shakspeare had not done this; and he alone 
• The Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. t Goethe. 



208 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

could have done it. Had he never created a 
IVIiranda, we should never have been made to feel 
how completely the purely natural and the purely 
ideal can blend into each other. 

The character of Mranda resolves itself into 
the very elements of womanhood. She is beauti- 
ful, modest, and tender, and she is these only ; they 
comprise her whole being, external and internal. 
She is so perfectly unsophisticated, so delicately 
refined, that she is all but ethereal. Let us imagine 
any other woman placed beside Miranda — even 
one of Shakspeare's own loveliest and sweetest 
creations — there is not one of them that could sus- 
tain the comparison for a moment; not one that 
would not appear somewhat coarse or artificial when 
brought into immediate contact with this pure child 
of nature, this " Eve of an enchanted Paradise." 

What, then, has Shakspeare done ? — " O wondrous 
skill and sweet wit of the man ! " — he has removed 
Miranda far from all comparison with her own sex ; 
he has placed her between the demi-demon of 
earth and the delicate spirit of air. The next step 
is into the ideal and supernatural ; and the only 
being who approaches IMiranda, with whom she can 
be contrasted, is Ariel. Beside the subtle essence 
of this ethereal sprite, this creature of elemental 
light and air, that " ran upon the winds, rode the 
curl'd clouds, and in the colors of the rainbow 
lived," JVIiranda herself appears a palpable reality, 
a woman, " breathing thoughtful breatli," a woman, 
walking the earth in her mortal loveliness, with a 



MIRANDA. 209 

heart as frail-strung, as passion-touched, as ever 
fluttered in a female bosom. 

I have said that Miranda possesses merely the 
elementary attributes of womanhood, but each of 
these stand in her with a distinct and peculiar 
grace. She resembles nothing upon earth ; but do 
we therefore compare her, in our own minds, with 
any of those fabled beings with which the fancy 
of ancient poets peopled the forest depths, the 
fountain or the ocean ? — oread or dryad fleet, sea- 
maid, or naiad of the stream ? We cannot think 
of them together. Miranda is a consistent, natural, 
human being. Our impression of her nymph-like 
beauty, her peerless grace, and purity of soul, has 
a distinct and individual character. 2^[ot only is 
she exquisitely lovely, being what she is, but we are 
made to feel that she could not possibly be other- 
wise than as she is portrayed. She has never be- 
held one of her own sex ; she has never caught 
from society one imitated or artificial grace. The 
impulses which have come to her, in her enchanted 
solitude, are of heaven and nature, not of the 
world and its vanities. She has sprung up into- 
beauty beneath the eye of her father," the princely 
magician ; her companions have been the rocks 
and woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds, 
and the silent stars ; her playmates the ocean bil- 
lows, that stooped their foamy crests, and ran rip- 
pling to kiss her feet. Ariel and his attendant 
sprites hovered over her head, ministered duteous 
to her every wish, and presented before her 
14 



210 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

pageants of beauty and grandeur. The very air, 
made vocal by lier father's art, floated in music 
around her. If we can presuppose such a situation 
with all its circumstances, do we not behold in the 
character of Miranda not only the credible, but 
the natural, the necessary results of such a situar 
tion V She retains her woman's heart, for that is 
unalterable and inalienable, as a part of her being ; 
but her deportment, her looks, her language, her 
thoughts — aU these, from the supernatural and 
poetical circumstances around her, assume a cast 
of the pure ideal ; and to us, who are in the secret 
of her human and pitying nature, nothing can be 
more charming and consistent than the effect which 
she produces upon others, who never having be- 
held any thing resembling her, approach her as " a 
wonder," as something celestial : — 

Be sure ! the goddess on whom these airs attend ! 

And again : — 

What is this maid ? 
Is she the goddess who hath severed us, 
And brought us thus together ? 

And Ferdinand exclaims, while gazing on her, — 

My spirits as in a dream are all bound up ! 
My father's loss, the weakness that I feel, 
The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threats, 
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me 
Might I but through my prison once a day 
Behold this maid : all comers else o' the earth 
Let liberty make use of, space enough 
Have I in such a prison. 



MIRANDA. 211 

Contrasted with tlie impression of her refined 
and dignified beauty, and its effect on all beholders, 
is JVliranda's own soft simplicity, ber virgin inno- 
cence, her total ignorance of the conventional 
forms and language of society. It is most natural 
that in a being thus constituted, the first tears should 
spring from compassion, " suffering with those that 
she saw suffer : "— 

the cry did knock 
Against my very heart. Poor souls ! they perished. 
Had I been any god of power, I would 
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er 
It should the good ship so have swallowed, 
And the freighting souls within her ; 

and that her first sigh should be offered to a love 
at once fearless and submissive, delicate and fond. 
She has no taught scruples of honor like Juliet ; 
no coy concealments like Viola ; no assmned dig- 
nity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness 
is less a quality than an instinct ; it is like the self- 
folding of a flower, spontaneous and unconscious. 
I suppose there is nothing of the kind in poetry 
equal to the scene between Ferdinand and Mir- 
anda. In Ferdinand, who is a noble creature, we 
have all the chivalrous magnanimity vnth which 
man, in a high state of civilization, disguises his 
real superiority, and does humble homage to the 
being of whose destiny he disposes ; while Miranda, 
the mere child of nature, is struck with wonder at 
her own new emotions. Only conscious of her 



212 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

own weakness as a woman, and ignorant of those 
usages of society which teach us to dissemble the 
real passion, and assume (and sometimes abuse) an 
unreal and transient power, she is equally ready 
to place her life, her love, her service beneath his 
feet. 

MIRANDA. 

Alas, now ! pray you. 
Work not so hard : I would the lightning had 
Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile ! 
Pray set it down and rest you : when this burns, 
'Twill weep for having weary'd you. My father 
Is hard at study ; pray now, rest yourself: 
He's safe for these three hours. 

FERDINAND. 

most dear mistress, 
The sun will set before I shall discharge 
What I must strive to do. 

MIRANDA. 

If you'll sit down, 
I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that, 
I'll carry it to the pile. 

FERDINAND. 

No, precious creature ; 
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back. 
Than you should such dishonor undergo, 
' While I sit lazy by. 

MIRANDA. 

It would become me 
As well as it does you ; and I should do it 



MIRANDA. 213 

With much more ease ; for my good will is to it, 
And yours against. 

***** 

MIRANDA, 

You look -wearily. 

FEEDIXAXD. 

No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh morning with me 
When you are by at night. I do beseech you, 
(Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,) 
What is your name V 

MIRANDA. 

Miranda. my father, 
I have broke your 'best to say so ! 

FERDINAND. 

Admir'd Miranda! 
Indeed the top of admiration ; woi-th 
What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
I have eyed with best regard : and many a time 
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues 
Have I liked several women ; never any 
With so full soul, but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed 
And put it to the foil. But you, you. 
So perfect and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature's best! 

MIRANDA. 

I do not know 
One of my sex: no woman's face remember. 
Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
More that I may call men, than you, good friend, 
And my dear father. How features are abroad 



214 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

I am skill-less of: but, by my modesty, 
(The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish 
Any companion in the world but you ; 
Nor can imagination form a shape, 
Besides yourself, to like of — But I prattle 
Something too wildly, and my father's pi'ecepts 
Therein forget. 

FERDINAJID. 

I am, in my condition 
A prince, IMiranda — I do think a king — 
(I would, not so ! ) and would no more endure 
This wooden slavery, than I would suffer 
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak; 
The very instant that I saw j'ou, did 
My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake, 
Am I this patient log-man. 

MIRANDA. 

Do you love me ? 

FERDINAND. 

heaven! earth! bear witness to this sound, 
And crown what I profess with kind event, 
If I speak true : if hollowly, invert 
What best is boded me, to mischief! I, 
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, 
Do love, prize, honor you. 

MIRANDA. 

I am a fool. 
To weep at w^hat I am glad of, 

FERDINAND. 

Wherefore weep you? 



MIRANDA. 215 

MIRANDA. 

At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer 

What I desire to give ; and much less take, 

What I shall die to want — But this is trifling: 

And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning; 

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 

I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 

If not I'Ll die your maid : to be your fellow 

You may deny me; but I'll be your servant 

Whether you will or no ! 

FERDINAND. 

My mistress, dearest ! 
And I thus humble ever. 

MIRANTJA. 

My husband, then? 

FERDINAND. 

Ay, with a heart as willing. 

As bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand. 

MIRANDA. 

And mine with my heart in it. And now farewell 
Till half an hour hence. 

As Miranda, being what she is, could only have 
had a Ferdinand for a lover, and an Ariel for her 
attendant, so she could have had with propriety no 
other father than the majestic and gifted being, 
who fondly claims her as " a thread of his own 
life — nay, that fbr which he lives." Prospero, with 
his magical powers, his superhuman wisdom, his 
moral worth and grandeur, and his kingly dignity, 



216 CnAllACTERS OF PASSIOX, ETC. 

is one of tlie most sublime visions that ever swept 
with ample robes, pale brow, and sceptred hand, 
before the eye of fancy. He controls the Invisible 
world, and works through the agency of spirits ! 
not by any evil and forbidden compact, but solely 
by superior might of intellect — by potent spells 
gathered from the lore of ages, and abjured when 
he mingles again as a man with his fellow men. 
He is as distinct a being from the necromancers 
and astrologers celebrated in Shakspeare's age, as 
can well be imagined : * and all the wizards of 
poetry and fiction, even Faust and St. Leon, sink 
into commonplaces before the princely, the philo- 
sopliic, the benevolent Prospero. 

The Bermuda Isles, in which Shakspeare has 
placed the scene of the Tempest, were discovered 
in his time : Sir George Somers and his companions 
having been wrecked there in a terrible storm,f 
brought back a most fearful account of those un- 
known Islands, which they described as " a land of 
devils — a most prodigious and enchanted place, 
subject to continual tempests and supernatural 
visitings." Such was the idea entertained of the 
" still-vext Bermoothes " in Shakspeare's age ; but 
later travellers describe them as perfect regions of 
enchantment in a far different sense ; as so many 

* Such as Cornelius Agrippa, Michael Scott, Dr. Dee. The last 
was the contemporary of Shakspeare. 

t lu 1609, about three years before Shakspeare produced the 
Tempest, which, though placed first in all the editions of his 
works, was one of the last of his dramas 



MIRANDA. 217 

fairy Edens, clustered like a knot of gems upon 
the bosom of the Atlantic, decked out in all the 
lavish luxuriance of nature, with shades of myrtle 
and cedar, fringed round with groves of coral 
in short, each island a tiny paradise, rich with 
perpetual blossoms, in which Ariel might have 
slumbered, and ever-verdant bowers, in which 
Ferdinand and Miranda might have strayed: so 
that Shakspeare, in blending the wild relations of 
the shipwrecked mariners with his own inspired 
fancies, has produced notliing, however lovely in 
nature and sublime in magical power, which does 
not harmonize with the beautiful and wondrous 
reality. 

There is another circumstance connected with 
the Tempest, which is rather interesting. It was 
produced and acted for the first time upon the 
occasion of the nuptials of the Princess Elizabeth, 
the eldest daughter of James I. with Frederic, the 
elector palatine. It is hardly necessary to remind 
the reader of the fate of this amiable but most un- 
happy woman, whose life, almost from the period 
of her marriage, was one long tempestuous scene 
of trouble and adversity. 

***** 

The characters which I have here classed 
together, as principally distinguished by the pre- 
dominance of passion and fancy, appear to me to 
rise, in the scale of ideality and simplicity, from 
Juliet to Miranda; the last being in comparison so 
refined, so elevated above all stain of earth, that 



218 CHARACTERS OF PASSION, ETC. 

Tve can only acknowledge her in connection with it 
through the emotions of sympathy she feels and 
inspires. 

I remember, when I was in Italy, standing " at 
evening on the top of Flesole," and at my feet I 
beheld the city of Florence and the Val d'Arno, 
with its villas, its luxuriant gardens, groves, and 
olive grounds, all bathed In crimson light. A trans- 
parent vapor or exhalation, which in its tint was 
almost as rich as the pomegranate flower, moving 
with soft undulation, rolled through the valley, and 
the very earth seemed to pant with warm life 
beneath its rosy veil. A dark purple shade, the 
forerunner of night, was already stealing over the 
east ; in the western sky still lingered the blaze of 
the sunset, while the faint perfume of trees, and 
flowers, and now and then a strain of music wafted 
upwards, completed the intoxication of the senses. 
But I looked from the earth to the sky, and im- 
mediately above this scene hung the soft crescent 
moon — alone, with all the bright heaven to herself; 
and as that sweet moon to the glowing landscape 
beneath it, such is the character of JMIranda com- 
pared to that of Juliet. 



c^ 



CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



HERMIONE. 

CnARACTERS in whicli the affections and the 
moral qualities predominate over fancy and all that 
bears the name of passion, are not, when we meet 
with them in real life, the most striking and inter- 
esting, nor the easiest to be understood and appre- 
ciated ; but they are those on which, in the long 
run, we repose with increasing confidence and ever- 
new delight. Such characters are not easily ex- 
hibited in the colors of poetry, and when we meet 
with them there, we are reminded of the effect of 
Raffaelle's pictures. Sir Joshua Reynolds assures 
us, that it took him three weeks to discover the 
beauty of the frescos in the Vatican ; and many, if 
they spoke the truth, would prefer one of Titian's 
or Murillo's Virgins to one of Raffaelle's heavenly 
Madonnas. The less there is of marked expression 
or vivid color in a countenance or character, the 
more difficult to delineate it in such a manner as to 
captivate and interest us : but when this is done, 
and done to perfection, it is the miracle of poetry 
in painting, and of painting in poetry. Only Raf- 
faelle and Correggio have achieved it in one case, 
and only Shakspeare in the other. 



220 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

"When, by the presence or the agency of some 
predominant and exciting power, the feelings and 
affections are upturned from the depths of the 
heart, and flung to the surface, tKe painter or the 
poet has but to watch the workings of the passions, 
thus in a manner made visible, and transfer them 
to his page or his canvas, in colors more or less 
vigorous : but where all is calm without and around, 
to dive into the profoundest abysses of character, 
trace the affections where they lie hidden like the 
ocean springs, wind into the most intricate involu- 
tions of the heart, patiently unravel its most del- 
icate fibres, and in a few graceful touches place be- 
fore us the distinct and visible result, — to do this, 
demanded power of another and a rarer kind. 

There are several of Shakspeare's characters 
"which are especially distinguished by this profound 
feeling in the conception, and subdued harmony of 
tone in the delineation. To them may be particu- 
larly applied the ingenious simile which Goethe has 
used to illustrate generally all Shakspeare's char- 
acters, when he compares them to the old-fashioned 
watches in glass cases, which not only showed the 
index pointing to the hour, but the wheels and 
springs within, which set that index in motion. 

Imogen, Desdemona, and Hermione, are three 
women placed in situations nearly similar, and 
equally endowed with all the qualities which can 
render that situation striking and interesting. They 
are all gentle, beautiful, and innocent; all are 
models of conjugal submission, truth, and tender- 



HERMIOXE. 221 

ness ; and all are victims of the unfounded jealousy 
of their husbands. So far the parallel is close, but 
here the resemblance ceases ; the circumstances of 
each situation are varied with wonderful skill, and 
the characters, which are as different as it is pos- 
sible to imagine, conceived and discriminated with 
a power of truth and a dehcacy of feeling yet more 
astonishing. 

Critically speaking, the character of Hermione is 
the most simple in point of dramatic effect, that of 
Imogen is the most varied and complex. Hermione 
is most distinguished by her magnanimity and her 
fortitude, Desdemona by her gentleness and refined 
grace, while Imogen combines all the best quahties 
of both, with others which they do not possess ; 
consequently she is, as a character, superior to 
either ; but considered as women, I suppose the 
preference would depend on individual taste. 

Hermione is the heroine of the first three acts of 
the Winter's Tale. She is the wife of Leontes, 
king of Sicilia, and though in the prime of beauty 
and womanhood, is not represented in the first 
bloom of youth. Her husband on slight grounds 
suspects her of infidelity with his friend Polixenes, 
king of Bohemia ; the suspicion once admitted, and 
working on a jealous, passionate, and vindictive 
mind, becomes a settled and confirmed opinion. 
Hermione is thrown into a dungeon ; her new-born 
mfant is taken from her, and by the order of her 
husband, frantic with jealousy, exposed to death on 
a desert shore ; she is herself brought to a public 



222 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

trial for treason and incontinency, defends herself 
nobly, and is pronounced innocent by the oracle. 
But at the very moment that she is acquitted, she 
learns the death of the prince her son, who 

Conceiving the dishonor of his mother, 
Had straight declined, drooped, took it deeply. 
Fastened and fixed the shame on't in himself, 
Threw off his spirit, appetite, and sleep. 
And downright languished. 

She swoons away with grief, and her supposed 
death concludes the third act. The last two acts 
are occupied with the adventures of her daughter 
Perdita ; and with the restoration of Perdita to the 
arms of her mother, and the reconciliation of Her- 
mione and Leontes, the piece concludes. 

Such, in few words, is the dramatic situation. 
The character of Hermione exhibits what is never 
found in the other sex, but rarely in our own — yet 
sometimes; — dignity without pride, love without 
passion, and tenderness without weakness. To 
conceive a character in wliicli there enters so much 
of the negative, required perhaps no rare and 
astonisliing effort of genius, such as created a Ju- 
liet, a Miranda, or a Lady Macbeth ; but to de- 
lineate such a character in the poetical form, to 
develop it through the medium of action and dia- 
logue, without the aid of description : to preserve 
its tranquil, mild, and serious beauty, its unimpas- 
sioned dignity, and at the same time keep the 
strongest hold upon our spnpathy and our imag- 



HERMIONE. 223 

ination ; and out of tliis exterior calm, produce the 
most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of 
life and internal power : — it is this which rendei-s 
the character of Hermione one of Shakspeare's 
* masterpieces. 

Hermione is a queen, a matron, and a mother ; 
she is good and beautiful, and royally descended. 
A majestic sweetness, a grand and gracious simplic- 
ity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-possession, 
are in all her deportment, and in every word she 
utters. She is one of those characters, of whom it 
has been said proverbially, that " still waters run 
deep." Her passions are not vehement, but in her 
settled mind the sources of pain or pleasure, love or 
resentment, are like the springs that feed the moun- 
tain lakes, impenetrable, unfathomable, and inex- 
haustible. 

Shakspeare has conveyed (as is his custom) a 
part of the character of Hermione in scattered 
touches and through the impressions which she 
produces on all around her. Her surpassing beauty 
is alluded to in few but strong terms : — 

This jealousy 
Is for a precious creature ; as she is rare 
Must it be great. 

Praise her but for this her out-door form, 
(Which, on my faith, deserves high speech — ) 

If one by one you wedded all the world, 
Or from the all that are, took something good 
To make a perfect woman; she you killed 
Would be unpiu'allcled. 



224 CnARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

I might have looked upon my queen's full eyes, 
Have taken treasure from her lips — 

and left them 

More rich for Avhat they yielded. 

The expressions " most sacred lady," " dread 
mistress," " sovereign," with which she is addressed 
or alluded to, the boundless devotion and respect 
of those around her, and their confidence in her 
goodness and innocence, are so many additional 
strokes in the portrait. 

For her, my lord, 
I dare my life lay down, and will do't, sir. 
Please you t' accept it, that the queen is spotless 
I' the eyes of heaven, and to you. 

Every inch of woman in the world. 

Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false. 

If she be so. 

I would not be a stander-by to hear 

My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 

My present vengeance taken ! 

The mixture of playful courtesy, queenly-- dignity, 
and lady-like sweetness, with which she prevails on 
Polixenes to prolong his visit, is charaiing. 

HERMIONK. 

You'll stay ! 



No, madam. 



POLIXKNES. 
HERMIONE. 

Nay, but you will. 



HERMIONE. 225 

POLIXEXEB. 
I may not, vei'ily. 

HERMIONE. 

Verily! 
You put me off with limber vows ; but I, 
Tho' yoii would seek t' unspliei'e the stars Avith oaths 
Should still say, " Sir, no going! " Verily, 
You shall not go ! A lady's verily is 
As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet? 
Force me to keep you as a pi-isoner, 
Not like a guest ? 

And though the situation of Hermione admits but 
of few general reflections, one little speech, inimi- 
tably beautiful and characteristic, has become almost 
proverbial from its truth. She says : — 

One good deed, dying tongueless, 
Slaughters a thousand, waiting upon that. 
Our praises are our wages ; you may ride us 
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ere 
With spur we heat an acre. 

She receives the first intimation of her husband's 
jealous suspicions with incredulous astonishment. 
It is not that, like Desdemona, she does not or can- 
not understand ; but she will not. When he ac- 
cuses her more plainly, she replies with a calm 
dignity : — 

Should a villain say so — 
The most replenished villain in the world — 
He were as much more villain : you, my lord, 
Do but mistake. 
15 



226 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

This characteristic composure of temper never 
forsakes lier ; and yet it is so delineated that the 
impression is that of grandeur, and never borders 
upon pride or coldness : it is the fortitude of a 
gentle but a strong mind, conscious of its own in- 
nocence. Nothing can be more affecting than her 
calm reply to Leontes, who, in his jealous rage, 
heaps insult upon insult, and accuses her before her 
own attendants, as no better " than one of those to 
whom the vulgar give bold titles." 

How will this grieve you, 
When you shall come to cleax-er knowledge, that 
You have thus published me ! Gentle my lord. 
You scarce can right me thoroughly then, to say 
You did mistake. 

Her mild dignity and saint-like patience, com- 
bined as they are with the strongest sense of the 
cruel injustice of her husband, thrill us with admi- 
ration as well as pity ; and we cannot but see and 
feel, that for Hermione to give way to tears and 
feminine complaints under such a blow, would be 
quite incompatible with the character. Thus she 
says of herself, as she is led to prison : — 

There's some ill planet reigns: 
I must be patient till the heavens look 
With an aspect more favorable. Good my lords, 
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew 
Perchance shall dry your pities ; but I have 
That honorable grief lodged here, that burns 



HERMIONE. 227 

Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, 
With thought so qualified as your charities 
Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so 
The kmg's will be performed. 

When she is brought to trial for supposed crimes, 
called on to defend herself, " standing to prate and 
talk for life and honor, before who please to come 
and hear," the sense of her ignominious situation — 
all its shame and all its horror press upon her, and 
would apparently crush even her magnanimous 
spirit, but for the consciousness of her own worth 
and innocence, and the necessity that exists for as- 
serting and defending both. 

If powers divine 
Behold our human actions, (as they do,) 
I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make 
False accusation blush, and tyranny 
Tremble at patience. 

***** 
For life, I prize it 
As I weigh gi'ief, which I would spare. For honor — 
'Tis a derivative from mo to mine, 
And only that I stand for. 

Her earnest, eloquent justification of herself, and 
her lofty sense of female honor, are rendered more 
affecting and impressive by that chilling despair, 
that contempt for a life which has been made bitter 
to her through unkindness, which is betrayed in 
every word of her speech, though so calmly char- 
acteristic. When she enumerates the unmerited in- 
sults which have been heaped upon her, it is with- 



228 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

out asperity or reproach, yet in a tone which shows 
how completely the iron has entered her soul. 
Thus, when Leontes threatens her with death : — 

Sir, spare your threats ; 
The bug which you would fright me with, I seek. 
To me can life be no commodity ; 
The crown and comfort of my life, your favor, 
I do give lost ; for I do feel it gone, 
But know not how it went. My second joy. 
The first-fi'uits of my body, from his presence 
I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort — 
Starr'd most unluckily ! — is from my breast, 
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 
Haled out to murder. Myself on every post 
Proclaimed a strumpet ; with immodest hatred, 
The childbed privilege denied, which 'longs 
To women of all fashion. Lastly, hurried 
Here to this place, i' the open air, before 
I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, 
Tell me what blessings I have hei-e alive, 
That I should fear to die. Therefore, proceed. 
But yet hear this ; mistake me not. No ! life, 
I prize it not a straw : — but for mine honor, 
(Which I would free,) if I shall be condemned 
Upon surmises ; all proof sleeping else. 
But what your jealousies awake; I tell you, 
'Tis rigor and not law. 

The character of Hermione is considered open 
to criticism on one point. I have heard it remark- 
ed that when she secludes herself from the world 
for sixteen years, during which time she is mourned 
as dead by her repentant husband, and is not won 
to relent from her resolve by his sorrow, his re- 



HERMIONE. 229 

morse, his constancy to her memory; such conduct, 
argues the critic, is unfeeling as it is inconceivable 
in a tender and virtuous woman. Would Imogen 
have done so, "who is so generously ready to grant 
a pardon before it be asked ? or Desdemona, who 
does not forgive because she cannot even resent ? 
No, assuredly ; but this is only another proof of 
the wonderful delicacy and consistency with which 
Shakspeare has discriminated the characters of all 
three. The incident of Hermione's supposed death 
and concealment for sixteen years, is not indeed 
very probable in itself, nor very likely to occur ia 
every-day life. But besides all the probability nec- 
essary for the purposes of poetry, it has all the 
likelihood it can derive from the peculiar character 
of Hermione, who is precisely the woman who 
could and would have acted in this manner. In 
such a mind as hers, the sense of a cruel injury, in- 
flicted by one she had loved and trusted, without 
awakening any violent anger or any desire of ven- 
geance, would sink deep — almost incurably and 
lastingly deep. So far she is most unlike either 
Imogen or Desdemona, who are portrayed as much 
more flexible in temper ; but then the circumstances 
under which she is wronged are very difierent, and 
far more unpardonable. The self-created, frantic 
jealousy of Leontes is very distinct from that of 
Othello, writhing under the arts of lago : or that of 
Posthumus, whose understanding has been cheated 
by the most damning evidence of his wife's infidel- 
ity. The jealousy which in Othello and Posthumus 



230 HAKACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

is an error of judgment, in Leontes is a vice of the 
blood ; lie suspects without cause, condemns without 
proof; he is without excuse — unless the mixture of 
pride, passion, and imagination, and the predispo- 
sition to jealousy with which Shakspeare has por- 
ti'ayed him, be considered as an excuse. Hermione 
has been openly insulted : he to whom she gave 
herself, her heart, her soul, has stooped to the weak- 
ness and baseness of suspicion ; has doubted her 
truth, has wronged her love, has sunk in her esteem, 
and forfeited her confidence. She has been branded 
with vile names ; her son, her eldest hope, is dead 
— dead through the false accusation which has stuck 
infamy on his mother's name ; and her innocent 
babe, stained with illegitimacy, disowned and re- 
jected, has been exposed to a cruel death. Can 
we believe that the mere tardy acknowledgment of 
her innocence could make amends for wrongs and 
agonies such as these ? or heal a heart which must 
have bled inwardly, consumed by that untold grief, 
" which burns worse than tears drown ? " Keeping 
in view the peculiar character of Hermione, such 
as she is delineated, is she one either to forgive 
hastily or forget quickly ? and though she might, in 
her solitude, mourn over her repentant husband, 
would his repentance suffice to restore him at once 
to his place in her heart : to eiface from her strong 
and reflecting mind the recollection of his miserable 
weakness ? or can we fancy this high-souled woman 
— left childless through the injury which has been 
inflicted on her, widowed in heart by the unworth- 



HERMIONE. 231 

incss of him she loved, a spectacle of grief to all — • 
to her husband a continual reproach and humilia- 
tion — walking through the parade of ro}-alty in the 
court which had witnessed her anguish, her shame, 
her degradation, and her despair ? Methinks that 
the want of feehng, nature, delicacy, and consist- 
ency, would lie in such an exhibition as this. In 
a mind like Hermione's, where the strength of feel- 
ing is founded in the power of thought, and where 
there is little of impulse or imagination, — "the 
depth, but not the tumult of the soul," * — there are 
but two influences which predominate over the 
will, — time and religion. And what then remained, 
but that, wounded in heart and spirit, she should 
retire from the world? — not to brood over her 
wrongs, but to study forgiveness, and wait the ful- 
filment of the oracle which had promised the ter- 
mination of her sorrows. Thus a premature rec- 
onciliation would not only have been painfully 
inconsistent with the character ; it would also have 
deprived us of that most beautiful scene, in which 
Hermione is discovered to her husband as the statue 
or image of herself. And here we have another 
instance of that admirable art, with which the 

* The gods approve 

The depth, and not the tumult of the soul. 

Wordsworth. 

" II pouvait y avoir des vagues majestueuses et non de Torage 
dans son coeur," was finely observed of Madame de Stael in her 
maturer years ; it would have been true of Hermione at any 
period of her life. 



232 CIIAllACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

dramatic character is fitted to the circumstances in 
which it is placed : that perfect command over her 
own feehngs, that complete self-possession neces- 
sary to this extraordinary situation, is consistent 
with all that we imagine of Hermione: in any 
other woman it would be so incredible as to shock 
all our ideas of probability. 

This scene, then, is not only one of the most 
picturesque and striking instances of stage effect to 
be found in the ancient or modern drama, but by 
the skilful manner in which it is prepared, it has, 
wonderful as it appears, all the merit of consistency 
and ti'uth. The grief, the love, the remorse and 
impatience of Leontes, are finely contrasted -^ith 
the astonishment and admiration of Perdita, who, 
gazing on the figure of her mother like one en- 
tranced, looks as if she were also turned to marble. 
There is here one little instance of tender remem- 
brance in Leontes, which adds to the charming 
impression of Hermione's character. 

Chide me, dear stone ! that I may say indeed 
Thou art Hermione ; or rather thou art she 
In thy not chiding, for she was as tender 
As infancy and grace. 

Thus she stood, 
Even with siich life of majesty — warm life — 
As now it coldly stands — when first I woo'd her! 

The effect produced on the different persons of the 
drama by this living statue — an effect which at the 



HERMIONE. 233 

game moment is, and is not illusion — tlie manner 
in which the feelings of the spectators become 
entangled between the conviction of death and the 
impression of life, the idea of a deception and the 
feeling of a reality ; and the exquisite coloring of 
poetry and touches of natural feeling with which 
the whole is wrought up, till wonder, expectation, 
and intense pleasure, hold our pulse and breath 
suspended on the event, — are quite inimitable. 
The expressions used here by Leontes, — 

Thus she stood, 
Even with such life of majesty — warm life. 
The fixture of her eye has motion in't. 
And we are mock'd by art ! 

And by Polixines, — • 

The very life seems warm upon her lip, 

appear strangely applied to a statue, such as we 
usually imagine it — of the cold colorless marble; 
but it is evident that in this scene Hermione per- 
sonates one of those images or effigies, such as we 
may see in the old gothic cathedrals, in which the 
stone, or marble, was colored after nature. I 
remember coming suddenly upon one of these 
effigies, either at Basle or at Fribourg, which made 
me start : the figure was large as life ; the drapery 
of crimson, powdered with stars of gold ; the face 
and eyes, and hair, tinted after nature, though 
faded by time : it stood in a gothic niche, over a 
tomb, as I think, and in a kind of dim uncertain 
light. It would have been very easy for a living 



234 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS^ 

person to represent such an effigy, particularly if 
it had been painted by that " rare Italian master, 
Julio Romano,"* who, as we are informed, was 
the reputed author of this wonderful statue. 

The moment when Hermione descends from her 
pedestal, to the sound of soft music, and throws 
herself without speaking into her husband's arms, 
is one of inexpressible interest. It appears to me 
that her silence during the whole of this scene 
(except where she invokes a blessing on her 
daughter's head) is in the finest taste as a poetical 
beauty, besides being an admirable trait of char- 
acter. The misfortunes of Hermione, her long 
religious seclusion, the wonderful and almost super- 
natural part she has just enacted, have invested 
her with such a sacred and awful charm, that any 
words put into her mouth, must, I think, have 
injured the solemn and profound pathos of the 
situation. 

There are several among Shakspeare's char- 
acters which exercise a far stronger power over 
our feelings, our fancy, our understanding, than 
that of Hermione ; but not one, — unless perhaps 
Cordelia, — constructed upon so high and pure 
a principle. It is the union of gentleness with 
power which constitutes the perfection of mental 
grace. Thus among the ancients, with whom the 
graces were also the charities, (to show, perhaps, 
that while form alone may constitute beauty, senti- 
ment is necessary to grace,) one and the same 

* Winter's Tale, act v. scene ]1. 



HERMIONE. 235 

word signified equally strength and virtue. This 
feeling, earned "into the fine arts, was the secret of 
the antique grace — the grace of repose. The 
same eternal nature — the same sense of immutable 
truth and beauty, which revealed this sublime 
principle of art to the ancient Greeks, revealed it 
to the genius of Shakspeare; and the character 
of Ilermione, in which we have the same largeness 
of conception and delicacy of execution, — the same 
effect of suffering without passion, and grandeur 
without effort, is an instance, I think, that he felt 
within himself, and by intuition, what we study all 
our lives in the remains of ancient art. The calm, 
regular, classical beauty of Hermione's character 
is the more impressive from the wild and gotliic 
accompaniments of her story, and the beautiful 
relief afforded by the pastoral and romantic grace 
which is thrown around her daughter Perdita. 

The character of Paulina, in the Winter's Tale, 
though it has obtained but Kttle notice, and no 
critical remark, (that I have seen,) is yet one of 
the striking beauties of the play : and it has its 
moral too. As we see running through the whole 
universe that principle of contrast which may be 
called the life of nature, so we behold it every 
where illustrated in Shakspeare : upon this prin- 
ciple he has placed Emilia beside Desdemona, the 
nurse beside Juliet; the clowns and dairy-maids, 
and the merry peddler thief Autolycus round Flori- 
zel and Perdita ; — and made Paulina the friend of 
Hermione. 



236 CnARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Paulina does not fill any ostensible office near 
the person of the queen, but is a lacly of high rank 
in the court — the wife of the Lord Antigones. She 
IS a character strongly drawn from real and com- 
mon hfe — a clever, generous, strong-minded, warm- 
hearted woman, fearless in asserting the truth, firm 
in her sense of right, enthusiastic in all her affec- 
tions ; quick in thought, resolute in word, and ener- 
getic in action ; but heedless, hot-tempered, impa- 
tient, loud, bold, voluble, and turbulent of tongue ; 
regardless of the feelings of those for whom she would 
sacrifice her life, and injuring from excess of zeal 
those whom she most wishes to serve. How many 
such are there in the world ! But Paulina, though 
a very termagant, is yet a poetical termagant in 
her way ; and the manner in which all the evil 
and dangerous tendencies of such a temper are 
placed before us, even while the individual char- 
acter preserves the strongest hold upon our respect 
and admiration, forms an impressive lesson, as well 
as a natural and delightful portrait. 

In the scene, for instance, where she brings the 
infant before Leontes, with the hope of softening 
him to a sense of his injustice — " an office which," 
as she observes, " becomes a woman best " — her 
want of self-government, her bitter, inconsiderate 
reproaches, only add, as we might easily suppose, 
to his fury. 



PAULINA. 

I say I come 
From your good queen ! 



HERMIONE. 237 

LEONTES. 

Good queen ! 

PAULINA. 

Good queen, my lord, good queen: I say good queen; 
And would by combat make her good, so were I 
A man, the worst about you. 

LEONTES. 

Force her hence. 

PAULINA. 

Lot him that makes but trifles of his eyes, 

First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off; 

But first I'll do mine en-and. The good queen 

(For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter — 

Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing. 

LEONTES. 

Traitors ! 
Will you not push her out ! Give her the bastard. 

PAULINA. 

Forever 
Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
Tak'st up the princess by that forced baseness 
Which he has put upon't! 



He dreads his wife. 

PALT.TNA. 

So, I would you did; then 'twere past all doubt 
You'd call your children your's. 

LEONTES. 

A callat, 
Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, 
And now baits me ! — this brat is none of mine. 



238 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
PAXJLINA. 

It is yours, 
And miglit we lay the old proverb to your charge, 
So like you, 'tis the worse. 
* * * * :W * 

LEONTES. 

A gross hag ! 
And lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd, 
That wilt not stay her tongue. 

ANTIGONES. 

Hang all the husbands 
That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself 
Hardly one subject. 

LEONTES. 

Once more, take her hence. 

PAULINA. 

A most unworthy and unnatural lord 
Cau do no more. 

LEONTES. 

I'll have thee burn'd. 

PAULINA. 

I care not: 
It is an heretic that makes the fire, 
Not she which burns in't. 

Here, while we honor lier courage and her 
affection, we cannot help regretting her violence. 
We see, too, in Paulina, what we so often see in 
real life, that it is not those who are most suscepti- 
ble in their own temper and feelings, who are most 
delicate and forbearing towards the feelings of 
others. She does not comprehend, or will nol 
allow for the sensitive weakness of a mind less 



HERMIONE. 239 

firmly tempered than her own. There is a reply 
of Leontes to one of her cutting speeches, which 
is full of feeling, and a lesson to those, who, with 
the best intentions in the world, force the painful 
truth, like a knife, into the already lacerated heart. 

PAULINA. 

If, one by one, you wedded all the world, 
Or, from the all that are, took something good 
To make a perfect Avoman, she you kill'd 
Would be unparallel'd. 

LEONTES. 

I think so. KiU'd ! 

She I kill'd? I did so: but thou strik'st me 

Sorely, to say I did ; it is as bitter 

Upon thy tongue, as in my thought. Now, good now, 

Say so but seldom. 

CLEOMENES. 

Not at all, good lady : 

You might have spoken a thousand things that would 
Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd 
Your kindness better. 

We can only excuse Paulina by recollecting that 
it is a part of her purpose to keep alive in the 
heart of" Leontes the remembrance of his queen's 
perfections, and of his own cruel injustice. It is 
admirable, too, that Hermione and Paulina, while 
sufliciently approximated to afford all the pleasure 
of contrast, are never brought too nearly in contact 
on the scene or in the dialogue ;* for this would 

* Only in the last scene, when, with solemnity befitting the 
occasion, Paulina inyokes the majestic figure to " descend, and 
be stone no more," and where she presents her daughter to her, 
" Turn, good lady I our Perdita is found.' 



240 ARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

have been a fault in taste, and have necessarily- 
weakened the effect of both characters : — either 
the serene grandeur of Hermione would have sub- 
dued and overawed the fiery spirit of Paulina, or 
the impetuous temper of the latter must have dis- 
turbed in some respect our impression of the calm, 
majestic, and somewhat melancholy beauty of 
Hermione. 



DESDEMONA. 

The character of Hermione is addressed more to 
the imagination ; that of Desdemona to the feel- 
ings. AU that can render sorrow majestic is 
gathered round Hermione; all that can render 
misery heart-breaking is assembled round Desde- 
mona. The wronged but self-sustained virtue of 
Hermione commands our veneration ; the injured 
and defenceless innocence of Desdemona so wrings 
the soul, " that all for pity we could die." 

Desdemona, as a character, comes nearest to 
Miranda, both in herself as a Avoman, and in the 
perfect simplicity and unity of the delineation ; 
the figures are differently draped — the proportions 
are the same. There is the same modesty, tender- 
ness, and grace ; the same artless devotion in the 
affections, the same predisposition to wonder, to 
pity, to admire ; the same almost ethereal refine- 
ment and delicacy ; but all is pure poetic nature 
within Miranda and around her: Desdemona is 



DESDEMONA. 241 

more associated with the palpable realities of every- 
day existence, and we see the forms and habits of 
society tinting her language and deportment ; no 
two beings can be more alike in character — nor 
more distinct as individuals. 

The love of Desdemona for Othello appears at 
first such a violation of all probabilities, that her 
father at onc3 imputes it to magic, " to spells and 
mixtures powerful o'er the blood." 

She, in spite of nature, 
Of years, of country, credit, every thing, 
To fall in love with what she feared to look on! 

And the devilish malignity of lago, whose coarse 
mind cannot conceive an affection founded purely 
in sentiment, derives from her love itself a strong 
argument against her. 

Ay, there's the point, as to be bold with you, 
Not to affect any proposed matches 
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree. 
Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends,* &c. 

Notwithstanding this disparity of age, character, 
country, complexion, we, who are admitted into the 
secret, see her love rise naturally and necessarily 
out of the leading propensities of her nature. 

At the period of the story a spirit of wild ad- 
venture had seized all Europe. The discovery of 
both Indies was yet recent ; over the shores of the 
western hemisphere still fable and mystery hung, 

* Act iii. scene 3. 
16 



242 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

with all their dun enchantments, visionary terrors, 
and golden promises ! perilous expeditions and 
distant voyages were every day undertaken from 
hope of plunder, or mere love of enterprise ; and 
from these the adventurers returned with tales of 
" Antres vast and desarts wild — of cannibals that 
did each other eat — of Anthropophagi, and men 
whose heads did grow beneath their shoulders." 
AVith just such stories did Raleigh and Clifford, 
and their followers return from the New World : 
and thus by their splendid or fearful exaggerations, 
which the imperfect knowledge of those times could 
not refute, was the passion for the romantic and 
marvellous nourished at home, particularly among 
the women. A cavalier of those days had no nearer 
no surer way to his mistress's heart, than by enter- 
taining her with these wondrous narratives. What 
was a general feature of his time, Shakspeare seized 
and adapted to his purpose with the most exquisite 
felicity of effect. Desdemona, leaving her house- 
hold cares in haste, to hang breathless on Othello's 
tales, was doubtless a picture from the life ; and 
her Inexperience and her quick imagination lend 
it an added propriety : then her compassionate dis- 
position is Interested by all the disastrous chances, 
hair-breadth 'scapes, and moving accidents by 
flood and field, of which he has to tell ; and her 
exceeding gentleness and timidity, and her do- 
mestic turn of mind, render her more easily cap- 
tivated by the military renown, the valor, and lofty 
bearInG: of the noble Moor^ — 



DESDEMONA. 243 

And to his honors and his valiant parts 
Does she hex- soul and fortunes consecrate. 

Tlie confession and the excuse for her love is 
well placed in the mouth of Desdemona, while the 
history of the rise of that love, and of his course 
of wooing, is, with the most graceful propriety, as 
far as she is concerned, spoken by Othello, and in 
her absence. The last two lines summing up the 
whole — 

She loved me for the dangers I had passed, 
And I loved her that she did pity them — 

comprise whole volumes of sentiment and meta- 
physics. 

Desdemona displays at times a transient energy, 
arising from the power of affection, but gentle-* 
ness gives the prevailing tone to the character — 
gentleness in its excess — gentleness verging on pas- 
siveness — gentleness, which not only cannot resent, 
— but cannot resist. 

OTHELLO. 

Then of so gentle a condition ! 

lAGO. 

Ay ! too gentle. 

OTHELLO. 

Nay, that's certain 

Here the exceeding softness of Desdemona's 
temper is turned against her by lago, so that it 
suddenly strikes Othello in a new point of view, 



244 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

as the inability to resist temptation ; but to us who 
perceive the character as a whole, this extreme 
gentleness of nature is yet delineated with such 
exceeding refinement, that the effect never ap- 
proaches to feebleness. It is true that once her 
extreme timidity leads her in a moment of con- 
fusion and terror to prevaricate about the fatal 
handkerchief. This handkerchief, in the original 
story of Cinthio, is merely one of those embroider- 
ed handkerchiefs which were as fashionable in 
Shakspeare's time as in our own ; but the minute 
description of it as " lavorato alia morisco sottilis- 
simamente," * suggested to the poetical fancy of 
Shakspeare one of the most exquisite and charac- 
teristic passages in the whole play. Othello makes 
poor Desdemona believe that the handkerchief was 
a talisman. 

There's magic in the web of it. 
A sibyl, that had numbered in the world 
The sun to make two hundred compasses, 
In her prophetic fury sew'd the work: 
The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk, 
And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful 
Conserv'd of maidens' hearts. 

DESDEBIONA. 

Indeed! is't true? 

OTHELLO. 

Most veritable, therefore look to't well. 

* Which being interpreted into modern English, means, I 
believe, nothing more than that the pattern was what we now 
call arabesque. 



DESDEMOXA. 245 

DESDEMONA. 

Then would to heaven that I had never seen it ! 

OTHELLO. 

Ha! wherefore! 

DESDEMONA. 

Why do you speak so starthigly and rash ? 

OTHELLO. 

Is't lost, — Is't gone? Speak, is it out of the way? 

DESDEMONA. 

Heavens bless us ! 

OTHELLO. 

Say you? 

DESDEMONA. 

It is not lost — ^but what an' if it were ? 

OTHELLO. 

Ha! 

DESDEMONA. 

I say it is not lost. 

OTHELLO. 

Fetch it, let me see it. 

DESDEMONA. 

Why so I can, sir, but I will not now, &c. 

Desdemona, whose soft credulity, whose turn for 
the marvellous, whose susceptible imagination had 
first directed her thoughts and affections to 
Olhello, is precisely the woman to be frightened 
out of her senses by such a tale as this, and be- 
trayed by her fears into a momentary tcrgivorsa- 
tiou. It is most natural in such a being, and shows 



246 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

US that even In the sweetest natures there can be 
no completeness and consistency without moral 
energy.* 

With the most perfect artlessness, she has some- 
thing of the Instinctive, unconscious address of her 
sex ; as when she appeals to her father — 

So much duty as my mother show'd 
To you, preferring you before her father, 
So much I challenge, that I may profess 
Due to the Moor, my lord. 

And when she is pleading for Cassio — 

What! Michael Cassio! 
That came a wooing with you ; and many a time, 
When I have spoken of you disparagingly, 
Hath ta'en your part? 

In persons who unite great sensibility and lively 
fancy, I have often observed this particular species 
of address, which Is always unconscious of Itself, 
and consists In the power of placing ourselves In 

* There is an incident in the original tale, " H Moro di 
Venezia," which could not well be transferred to the drama, but 
■which is very effective, and adds, I think, to the circumstantial 
horrors of the story. Desdemona does not accidentally drop the 
handkerchief ; it is stolen from her by lago's little child, an 
infant of three years old, whom he trains and bribes to the theft • 
The love of Desdemona for this child, her little playfellow — the 
pretty description of her taking it in her arms and caressing it, 
while it profits by its situation to steal the handkerchief from 
her bosom, are well imagined, and beautifully told; and the 
circumstance of lago employing his own innocent child as the 
instrument of his infernal villany. adds a deeper, and, in truth, 
an unnecessary touch of the fiend, to his fiendish character. 



DESDEMOXA. 247 

the position of anotlier, and imagining, ratlier than 
perceiving, what is in their hearts. We women 
have this address (If so it can be called) naturally, 
but I have seldom met with it in men. It is not 
inconsistent with extreme simplicity of character, 
and quite distinct from that kind of art which is 
the result of natural acuteness and habits of ob- 
servation — quick to perceive the foibles of others, 
and as quick to turn them to its own purposes ; 
which is always conscious of itself, and, if united 
with strong intellect, seldom perceptible to others. 
In the mention of her mother, and the appeal to 
Othello's self-love, Desdemona has no design formed 
on conclusions previously drawn ; but her intuitive 
quickness of feeling, added to her imagination, lead 
her more safely to the same results, and the dis- 
tinction is as truly as It is delicately drawn. 

Wlien Othello first outrages her in a manner 
which appears inexplicable, she seeks and finds 
excuses for him. She is so innocent that not only 
she canftot believe herself suspected, but she can- 
not conceive the existence of guilt in others. 

Something, sure, of state. 
Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice 
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, 
Hath puddled his clear spirit. 

'Tis even so — 
Nay, we must think, men are not gods, 
Nor of tlieni look for such observances 
As tit the bridal. 

And when the direct accusation of crime is flun<y 



248 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

on her in tlie vilest terms, it does not anger but 
stun her, as if it transfixed her Avhole being ; she 
attempts no reply, no defence ; and reproach or 
resistance never enters her thought. 

Good friend, go to him — for by this light of heaven 
I know not how I lost him : here I loieel : — 
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, 
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed; 
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
Delighted them in any other form; 
Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 
And ever will, though he do shake me off 
To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly. 
Comfort forswear me ! Unkindness may do much, 
And his unkindness may defeat my life. 
But never taint my love. 

And there is one stroke of consummate delicacy, 
surprising, when we remember the latitude of ex- 
pression prevailing in Shakspeare's time, and which 
he allowed to his other women generally : she says, 
on recovering from her stupefaction — 

Am I that name, lago ? 

lAGO. 

What name, sweet lady? 

DESDEMONA. 

That which she says my lord did say I was. 

So completely did Shakspeare enter into the an- 
gelic refinement of the character. 

Endued with that temper which is the origin of 
superstition in love as in religion, — which, in fact. 



DESDEMONA. 249 

makes love Itself a religion, — she not only does not 
utter an upbraiding, but nothing that Othello does 
or says, no outrage, no injustice, can tear away the 
charm with which her imagination had invested 
him, or impair her faith in his honor ; " Would you 
had never seen him ! " exclaims Emilia. 

DESDEMONA. 

So would not I ! — my love doth so approve him, 
That even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns 
Have grace and fiivor in them. 

There is another peculiarity, which, in reading 
the play of Othello, we rather feel than perceive : 
through the whole of the dialogue appropriated to 
Desdemona, there is not one general observation. 
Words are with her the vehicle of sentiment, and 
never of reflection ; so that I cannot find through- 
out a sentence of general application. The same 
remark applies to Miranda : and to no other female 
character of any importance or interest ; not even 
to Opheha. 

The rest of what I wished to say of Desdemona, 
has been anticipated by an anonymous critic, and 
so beautifully, so justly, so eloquently expressed, 
that I with pleasure erase my own page, to make 
room for his. 

" Othello," observes this writer, " is no love 
story ; all that is below tragedy in the passion of 
love, is taken away at once, by the awful character 
of Othello ; for such he seems to us to be designed 
to be. He appears never as a lover, but at once 
as a husband : and the relation of his love made 



250 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

dignified, as it is a husband's justification of his 
marriage, is also dignified, as it is a soldier's rela- 
tion of his stern and perilous life. His love itself, 
as long as it is happy, is perfectly calm and serene 
— the protecting tenderness of a husband. It is not 
till it is disordered, that it appears as a passion : 
then is shown a power in contention with itself — 
a mighty being struck with death, and bringing up 
from all the depths of life convulsions and agonies. 
It is no exhibition of the power of the passion of 
love, but of the passion of life, vitally wounded, and 
self over-mastering. If Desdemona had been really 
guilty, the greatness would have been destroyed, 
because his love would have been unworthy, false. 
But she is good, and his love is most perfect, just, 
and good. That a man should place his perfect 
love on a wretched thing, is miserably debasing, 
and shocking to thought ; but that loving perfectly 
and well, he should by hellish human circumven- 
tion be brought to distrust and dread, and abjure 
his own perfect love, is most mournful indeed — it 
is the infirmity of our good nature wrestling in vain 
with the strong powers of evil. Moreover, he 
would, had Desdemona been false, have been the 
mere victim of fate ; whereas he is now in a man- 
ner his own victim. His happy love was heroic 
tenderness ; his injured love is terrible passion ; 
and disordered power, engendered within itself to\ 
its own destruction, is the height of all tragedy. J 

" The character of Othello is perhaps the most 
gi'eatly drawn, the most heroic of any of Shaks- 



DESDEMONA. 251 

peare's actors ; but it is, perhaps, that one also of 
which his reader last acquires the intelligence. 
The intellectual and warlike energy of his mind — 
his tenderness of affection — his loftiness of spirit — 
his frank, generous magnanimity — impetuosity like 
a thunderbolt — and that dark, fierce flood of boil- 
ing passion, polluting even his imagination, — com- 
pose a character entirely original, most difficult to 
delineate, but perfectly delineated." 

Emifia in this play is a perfect portrait from com- 
mon life, a masterpiece in the Flemish style : and 
though not necessary as a contrast, it cannot be 
but that the thorough vulgarity, the loose princi- 
ples of this plebeian woman, united to a high de- 
gree of spirit, energetic feeling, strong sense and 
low cunning, serve to place in brighter relief the 
exquisite refinement, the moral grace, the unblem- 
ished truth, and the soft submission of Desdemona. 

On the other perfections of this tragedy, consid- 
ered as a production of genius — on the wonderful 
characters of Othello and lago — on the skill with 
which the plot is conducted, and its simplicity 
which a word unravels,* and on the overpowering 
horror of the catastrophe — eloquence and analyt- 
ical criticism have been exhausted ; I will only add, 
Ihat the source of the pathos throughout — of that 

* Consequences are so linked together, that the exclamation ol 
Emilia, 

thou dull Moor! — That handkerchief thou speakest of 

1 found by fortune, and did give my husband ! — 

is sufficient to reveal to Othello the whole history of his ruin. 



252 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

pathos which at once softens and deepens the traglft 
effect — lies in the character of Desdemona. No 
woman diff"erently constituted could have excited 
the same intense and painful compassion, without 
losing something of that exalted charm, which in- 
vests her from beginning to end, which we are apt 
to impute to the interest of the situation, and to the 
poetical coloring, but which lies, in fact, in the very 
essence of the character. Desdemona, with all her 
timid flexibility and soft acquiescence, is not weak ; 
for the negative alone is weak ; and the mere pres- 
ence of goodness and affection • implies in itself a 
species of power ; power without consciousness, 
power without effort, power with repose — that soul 
of grace ! 

I know a Desdemona in real life, one in whom the 
absence of intellectual power is never felt as a defi- 
ciency, noi the absence of energy of will as impair- 
ing the dignity, nor the most imperturbable serenity, 
as a want of feeling : one in whom thoughts appear 
mere instincts, the sentiment of rectitude supplies 
the principle, and virtue itself seems rather a nec- 
essary state of being, than an imposed law. No 
shade of sin or vanity has yet stolen over that 
bright innocence. No discord within has marred 
the loveliness without — no strife of the factitious 
world without has disturbed the harmony within. 
The comprehension of evil appears forever shut 
out, as if goodness had converted all things to 
itself; and all to the pure in heart must necessarily 
be pure. The impression produced is exactly that 



253 



of the cliavacter of Desdcmona ; genius is a rare 
thing, but abstract goodness is rarer. In Desde- 
mona, we cannot but feel that the slightest manifes- 
tation of intellectual power or active will would 
have injured fhe dramatic effect. She is a victin* 
consecrated from the first, — " an oflE'ering without 
blemish," alone worthy of the grand final sacrifice ; 
all harmony, all grace, all purity, all tenderness, all 
truth ! But, alas ! to see her fluttering like a 
cherub in the talons of a fiend ! — to see her — O 
poor Dcsdemona ! 



IMOGEN. 

We come to Imogen. Others of Shakspeare's 
characters are, as dramatic and poetical concep- 
tions, more striking, more brilliant, more powerful ; 
but of all his women, considered as individuals 
rather than as heroines, Imogen is the most perfect. 
Portia and Juliet are pictured to the fancy with 
more force of contrast, more depth of light and 
shade ; Viola and Miranda, with more aerial deli- 
cacy of outline ; but there is no female portrait that 
can be compared to Imogen as a woman — none in 
which so great a variety of tints are mingled to- 
gether into such perfect harmony. In her, we have 
all the fervor of youthful tenderness, all the ro- 
mance of youthful fancy, all the enchantment of 
ideal grace, — the bloom of beauty, the brightness 
of intellect, and the dignity of rank, taking a pe- 



254: CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

culiar hue from tlie conjugal character which is 
shed over all, like a consecration and a holy charm. 
In Othello and the Winter's Tale, the interest ex- 
cited for Desdemona and Hermione is divided with 
others : but in Cvmbeline, Imogen is the angel of 
light, whose lovely presence pervades and animates 
the whole piece. The character altogetber may be 
pronounced finer, more complex in its elements, 
and more fully developed in all its parts, than those 
of Hermione and Desdemona ; but the position in 
which she is placed is not, I think, so fine — at least, 
not so effective, as a tragic situation. 

Shakspeare has borrowed the chief circumstances 
of Imogen's story from one of Boccaccio's tales.* 

A company of Italian merchants who are assem- 
bled in a tavern at Paris, are represented as con- 
versing on the subject of their wives : all of them 
express themselves with levity, or sekpticism, or 
scorn, on the virtue of women, except a young 
Genoese merchant named Bernabo, who maintains, 
that by the especial favor of Heaven he possesses a 
wife no less chaste than beautiful. Heated by the 
wine, and excited by the arguments and the coarse 
raillery of another young merchant, Ambrogiolo, 
Bernabo proceeds to enumerate the various perfec- 
tions and accomplishments of his Zinevra. He 
praises her loveliness, her submission, and her dis- 
cretion — her skill in embroidery, her graceful ser- 
vice, in which the best trained page of the court 
could not exceed her ; and he adds, as rarer ac- 
* Decamerone. Novella, 9mo. Giornata, 2do. 



IMOGEN. 255 

complislimcnts, that she could mount a horse, fly a 
hawk, write and read, and cast up accounts, as well 
as any merchant of them all. His enthusiasm only 
excites the laughter and mockery of his compan- 
ions, particularly of Ambrogiolo, who, by the most 
artful mixture of contradiction and argument, 
rouses the anger of Bernabo, and he at length ex- 
claims, that he would wilhngly stake his life, his head, 
on the virtue of his wife. This leads to the wager 
which forms so important an incident in the drama. 
Ambrogiolo bets one thousand florins of gold 
against five thousand, that Zinevra, like the rest of 
her sex, is accessible to temptation — that in less 
than three months he will undermine her virtue, 
and bring her husband the most undeniable proofs 
of her falsehood. He sets off for Genoa, in oi'der 
to accomplish his purpose ; but on his arrival, all 
that he learns, and all that he beholds with his own 
eyes, of the discreet and noble character of the 
lady, make him despair of success by fair means ; 
he therefore has recourse to the basest treachery. 
By bribing an old woman in the service of Zin- 
evra, he is conveyed to her sleeping apartment, con- 
cealed in a trunk, from which he issues in the dead 
of the night ; he takes note of the furniture of the 
chamber, makes himself master of her purse, her 
morning robe, or cymar, and her girdle, and of a 
certain mark on her person. He repeats these ob- 
servations for two nights, and, furnished with these 
evidences of Zinevra's guilt, he returns to Paris, 
and lays them before the wretched husband. Ber- 



256 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

nabo rejects every proof of his wife's infidelity, 
except that which finally convinces Posthumus. 
When Ambrogiolo mentions the " mole, cinque- 
spotted," he stands like one who has received a 
poniard in his heart ; without further dispute he 
pays down the forfeit, and filled with rage and 
despair both at the loss of his money and the false- 
hood of his wife, he returns towards Genoa ; he 
retires to his country house, and sends a messenger 
to the city with letters to Zinevra, desiring that she 
would come and meet him, but with secret orders 
to the man to despatch her by the way. The ser- 
vant prepares to execute his master's command, 
but overcome by her entreaties for mercy, and his 
own remorse, he spares her life, on condition that 
she will fly from the country forever. He then 
disguises her in his own cloak and cap, and brings 
back to her husband the assurance that she is 
killed, and that her body has been devoured by the 
wolves. In the disguise of a mariner, Zinevra 
then embarks on board a vessel bound to the Le- 
vant, and on arriving at- Alexandria, she is taken 
into the service of the Sultan of Egypt, under the 
name of Sicurano ; she gains the confidence of her 
master, who, not suspecting her sex, sends her as 
captain of the guard which was appointed for the 
protection of the merchants at the fair of Acre. 
Here she accidentally meets Ambrogiolo, and sees 
in his possession the purse and girdle, which she 
immediately recognizes as her own. In reply to 
her inquiries, he relates with fiendish exultation 



IMOGEN. 257 

the manner in which he had obtained possession of 
them, and she persuades him to go back with her 
to Alexandria. She then sends a messenger to 
Genoa in the name of the Sultan, and induces her 
husband to come and settle in Alexandria. At a 
proper opportunity, she summons both to the pres- 
ence of the Sultan, obliges Ambrogiolo to make a 
full confession of his treachery, and wrings from 
her husband the avowal of his supposed murder of 
herself : then falling at the feet of the Sultan dis- 
covers her real name and sex, to the great amaze- 
ment of all. Bernabo is pardoned at the prayer 
of his wife, and Ambrogiolo is condemned to be 
fastened to a stak«, smeared with honey, and left 
to be devoured by the flies and locusts. This hor- 
rible ^sentence is executed ; while Zinevra, enriched 
by the presents of the Sultan, and the forfeit wealth 
of Ambrogiolo, returns with her husband to Genoa, 
where she lives in great honor and happiness, and 
maintains her reputation of virtue to the end of 
her life. 

These are the materials from which Shakspeare 
has draw the dramatic situation of Imogen. He 
has also endowed her with several of the qualities 
which are attributed to Zinevra ; but for the essen- 
tial truth and beauty of the individual character, 
for the sweet coloring of pathos, and sentiment, 
and poetry interfused through the whole, he is in- 
debted only to nature and himself. 

It would be a waste of words to refute certain 

critics who have accused Shakspeare of a want of 
17 



258 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

judgment In the adoption of the story ; of having 
transferred the manners of a set of intoxicated 
merchants and a merchant's wife to heroes and 
princesses, and of having entirely destroyed the 
interest of the catastrophe.* The truth is, that 
Shakspeare has wrought out the materials before 
him with the most luxuriant fancy and the most 
wonderful skill. As for the various anachronisms, 
and the confusion of names, dates, and manners, 
over which Dr. Johnson exults in no measured 
terms, the confusion is nowhere but in his own 
heavy obtuseness of sentiment and perception, and 
his want of poetical faith. Look into the old Italian 
poets, whom we read continually with still increas- 
ing pleasure ; does any one think of sitting down 
to disprove the existence of Ariodante, king of • 
Scotland ? or to prove that the mention of Proteus 
and Pluto, baptism and the Virgin Mary, in a 
breath, amounts to an anachronism ? Shakspeare, 
by throwing his story far back into a remote and 
uncertain age, has blended, by his " own omnipo- 
tent will," the marvellous, the heroic, the ideal, 
and the classical, — the extreme of refinement and 
the extreme of simplicity, — into one of the loveliest 
fictions of romantic poetry ; and, to use Schlegel's 
expression, " has made tlie social manners of the 
latest times harmonize with heroic deeds, and even 
with the appearances of the gods.f 

But, admirable as is the conduct of the whole 

* Vide Dr. Johnson, and Dunlop's History of Fiction. 

+ See Hazlitt and Schlegcl on the catastrophe of Cymbeline. 



IMOGEN. 259 

play, rich in variety of character and in pictu- 
resque incident, its chief beauty and interest is 
derived from Imogen. 

When Ferdinand tells Miranda that she was 
" created of every creature's best," he speaks like 
a lover, or refers only to her personal charms : the 
same expression might be applied critically to the 
character of Imogen ; for, as the portrait of Miranda 
is produced by resolving the female character into 
its original elements, so that of Imogen unites the 
greatest number of those qualities which we imag- 
ine to constitute excellency in woman. 

Imogen, like Juliet, conveys to our mind the 
impression of extreme simplicity in the midst of the 
most wonderful complexity. To conceive her aright, 
we must take some peculiar tint from many char- 
acters, and<60 mingle them, that, like the combina- 
tion of hues in a sunbeam, the effect" shall be as 
one to the eye. We must imagine something of 
the romantic enthusiasm of Juliet, of the truth and 
constancy of Helen, of the dignified purity of 
Isabel, of the tender sweetness of Viola, of the self- 
possession and intellect of Portia — combined to- 
gether so equally and so harmoniously, that we can 
scarcely say that one quality predominates over 
the other. But Imogen is less imaginative than 
Juliet, less spirited and intellectual than Portia, 
less serious than Helen and Isabel ; her dignity is 
not so imposing as that of Hermione, it stands more 
on the defensive ; her submission, though unbounded, 
is not so passive as that of Desdemona ; and thus, 



260 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

while she resembles each of these characters in- 
dividually, she stands wholly distinct from all. 

It is true, that the conjugal tenderness of Imogen 
is at once the chief subject of the drama, and the 
pervading charm of her character ; but it is not 
true, I think, that she is merely interesting from 
her tenderness and constancy to her husband. We 
are so completely let into the essence of Imogen's 
nature, that we feel as if we had known and loved 
her before she was married to Posthumus, and 
that her conjugal virtues are a charm superadded, 
like the color laid upon a beautiful groundwork. 
Neither does it appear to me, that Posthumus is 
unworthy of Imogen, or only interesting on Imogen's 
account. His character, like those of all the other 
persons of the drama, is kept subordinate to hers : 
but this could not be otherwise, for she is the proper 
subject — the heroine of the poem. Every thing is 
done to ennoble Posthumus, and justify her love 
for him ; and though we certainly approve him 
more for her sake than for his own, we are early 
prepared to view him with Imogen's eyes ; and not 
only excuse, but sympathize in her admiration of 
one 

Who sat 'mongst men like a descended god. 

***** 
Who lived in court, which it is rare to do, 
Most praised, most loved: 
A sample to the youngest ; to the more mature, 
A glass that feated them. 

And with what beauty and delicacy is her conjugal 



IMOGEN. 261 

and matronly character discriminated ! Her love 
for her husband is as deep as Juliet's for her lover, 
but without any of that headlong vehemence, that 
fluttering amid hope, fear, and transport — that 
giddy intoxication of heart and sense, which be- 
longs to the novelty of passion, which we feel once, 
and but once, in our lives. We see her love for 
Posthumus acting upon her mind with the force of 
an habitual feeling, heightened by enthusiastic 
passion, and hallowed by the sense of duty. She 
asserts and justifies her affection with energy in- 
deed, but with a calm and wife-like dignity : — 

CYMBELINE. 

Thou took'st a beggar, would'st have made my throne 
MseaX for baseness. 

IMOGEN. 

No, I rather added a lustre to it. 

CYMBELINE. 

thou vile one! 

IMOGEN. 

Sir, 
It is your fault that I have loved Posthuraus ; 
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 
A man worth any woman ; overbuys me, 
Almost the sum he pays. 

Compare also, as examples of the most delicate 
discrimination of character and feeling, the parting 
scene between Imogen and Posthumus, that between 
Romeo and Juliet, and that between Troilus and 



2G2 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Cresslda : compare the confiding matronly tender- 
ness, the deep but resigned sorrow of Imogen, with 
the despairing agony of Juliet, and the petulant 
grief of Cressida. 

When Posthumus is driven into exile, he comes 
to take a last farewell of his wife : — 



IMOGEN. 

My dearest husband, 
I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing 
(Always reserved my holy duty) what 
His rage can do on me. You must be gone, 
And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
Of angry eyes : not comforted to live. 
But that there is this jewel in the world 
That I may see again. 

POSTHUMUS. 

My queen ! my mistress ! 
0, lady, weep no more ! lest I give cause 
To be suspected of more tenderness 
Than dotli become a man. I will remain 
The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth 
***** 
Should we be taking leave 
As long a term as yet we have to live. 
The loathness to depart would grow — Adieu ! 

IMOGEN. 

Nay, stay a little : 

Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
Such parting wei-e too petty. Look here, love, 
This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; 
But keep it till you woo another Avife, 
When Imogen is dead ! 



IMOGEN. 263 

Imogen, In whose tenderness there is nothlns 
jealous or fantastic, does not seriously apprehend 
that her husband will woo another wife when she 
is dead. It is one of those fond fancies which 
women are apt to express in moments of feeling, 
merely for the pleasure of hearing a protestation 
to the contrary. When Posthumus leaves her, she 
does not burst forth in eloquent lamentation ; but 
that silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow, which 
renders the mind insensible to all things else, is 
represented with equal force and simpUcity. 

IMOGEN. 

There cannot be a pinch in death 
More sharp than this is. 

CYMBELINE. 

disloyal thing, 
That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest 
A year's age on me! 

IMOGEN. 

I beseech you, sir. 
Harm not yourself with your vexation ; I 
Am senseless of your wi-ath ; a touch more rare * 
Subdues all pangs, all fears. 

CYMBELINE. 

Past grace ? obedience ? 

IMOGEN. 

Past hope, and in despair — that way past grace. 
In the same circumstances, the impetuous excited 
* More rare — i. e. more exquisitely poignant. 



264 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIOIs'S. 

feelings of Juliet, and her vivid imagination, lend 
something far more wildly agitated, more intensely 
poetical and passionate to her grief. 

JULIET. 

Art thou gone so ? My love, my lord, my friend ! 
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour, 
For in a minute there are many days — 

by this count I shall be much in years, 
Ere I again behold my Romeo ! 

KOMEO. 

Farewell ! I will omit no opportunity 

That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 

JULIET. 

! think'st thou we shall ever meet again? 

KOMEO. 

1 doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve 
For sweet discourses in our time to come. 

JULIET. 

God! I have an ill-divining soul: 
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, 
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb : 
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale, 

We have no sympathy with the pouting dis- 
appointment of Cressida, which is just like that of 
a spoilt child which has lost its sugar-plum, without 
tenderness, passions, or poetry : and, in short, per- 
fectly characteristic of that vain, fickle, dissolute, 
heartless woman, — " unstable as water." 



IMOGEN. 265 

CEESSIDA. 

And is it true that I must go from Troy ? 

TROILUS. 

A hateful truth. 

CRESSIDA. 

What, and from Troilus too ? 

TROILUS. 

From Troy and Troilus. 

CEESSIDA. 

Is it possible ? 

TBOILUS,' 

And suddenly, 

CRESSIDA. 

I must then to the Greeks ? 

TROILUS. 

No remedy. 

CEESSIDA. 

A woeful Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks ! 
When shall we see again ? 

TROILUS. 

Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart— 

CRESSIDA. 

I true ! How now ? what wicked deem is tliis ? 

TROILUS. 

Nay, we must use expostulation kindly. 
For it is parting from us ; 
I speak not, be thou true, as fearing thee ; 
For I will throw my glove to Death himself, 



266 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

That there's no maculation in thy heart: 
But be thou ti-ue, say I, to fashion in 
My sequent pi'otestation. Be thou true, 
And I will see thee. 

CRESSIDA.t 

heavens ! be true again — 
heavens ! you love me not. 

TBOILUS. 

Die I a villain, then! 
In this I do not call your faith in question. 
So mainly as my merit — 

But be not tempted. 

CRESSIDA. 

Do you think I will? 

***** 

In the eagerness of Imogen to meet her husband 
there is all a wife's fondness, mixed up with the 
breathless hurry arising from a sudden and joyful 
surprise ; but nothing of the picturesque eloquence, 
the ardent, exuberant, Italian imagination of Juliet, 
■who, to gratify her impatience, would have her 
heralds thoughts ; — press into her service the nim- 
ble pinioned doves, and wind-swift Cupids, — change 
the course of nature, and lash the steeds of Phoebus 
to the west. Imogen only thinks " one score of 
miles, 'twixt sun and sun," slow travelling for a 
lover, and wishes for a horse with wings — 

for a horse with wings ! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? 
He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me 



IMOGEN. 267 

How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs 
May plod it in a week, why may not I 
GHde thither in a day ? Then, true Pisanio, 
(Who long'st like me, to see thy lord — who long'st — 

let me bate, but not like me — yet long'st, 
But in a fainter kind — not like me. 

For mine's beyond beyond,) say, and speak thick — 
(Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing 
To the smothering of the sense) — how far is it 
To this same blessed Milford ? And by the way, 
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as 
To inherit such a haven. But, first of all, 
How we may steal from hence ; and for the gap 
That we shall make in time, from our hence going 
And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence : 
Why should excuse be born, or e'er begot? 
We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'ythee speak, 
How many score of miles may we well ride 
'Twixt hour and hour? 

PISAKIO. 

One score, 'twixt sun and sun, 
Madam,'3 enough for you ; and too much too. 

IMOGEN. 

Why, one that rode to his execution, man, 
Could never go so slow ! 

There are two or three other passages bearing 
on the conjugal tenderness of Imogen, which must 
be noticed for the extreme intensity of the feeling, 
and the unadorned elegance of the expression. 

1 would thou grew'st unto the shores o' the haven 
And question'dst eveiy sail : if he should write. 
And 1 not have it, 'twere a paper lost 



268 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

As offer' d mercy is. What was the last 
That he spake to thee ? 

PISANIO. 

'Twas, His queen! his queen! 

IMOGEN. 

Then wav'd his hankerchief ? 

PISANIO. 

And kiss'd it, madam. 

IMOGEN. 

Senseless linen ! happier therein than I ! — 
And that was all ? 

PISANIO. 

No, madam ; for so long 
As he could make me with this eye or ear 
Distinguish him from others, he did keep 
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief 
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind 
Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, 
How swift his ship. 

IMOGEN. 

Thou should'st have made him 
As little as a ci'ow, or less, ere left 
To after-eye him. 

PISANIO. 

Madam, so I did. 

IMOGEN. 

I would have broke my eye-strings; cracked them, but 

To look upon him ; till the diminution 

Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ; 

Nay, followed him, till he had melted from 

The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then. 

Have turn'd mine eye, and wept. 



IMOGEN. 269 

Two little incidents, which are introduced with 
the most unobtrusive simplicity, convey the strong- 
est impression of her tenderness for her husband, 
and with that pei-fect unconsciousness on her part, 
which adds to the effect. Thus when she has lost 

her bracelet — 

Go, bid my woman 
Search for a jewel, that too casually, 
Hath left my arm. It was thy master's: 'shrew me, 
If I would lose it for a revenue 
Of any king in Europe. I do think 
I saw't this morning; confident I am. 
Last night 'twas on mine ai*m — 1 kiss'd it. 
1 hope it has not gone to tell my lord 
That I kiss aught but he. 

It has been well observed, that our consciousness 
that the bracelet is really gone to bear false witness 
against her, adds an inexpressibly touching effect 
to the simplicity and tenderness of the sentiment. 

And again, when she opens her bosom to meet 
the death to which her husband has doomed her, 
she finds his letters preserved next her heart. 

What's here ! 
The letters of the loyal Leonatus? — 
Soft, we'll no defence. 

The scene in which Posthumus stakes his ring 
on th.e virtue of his wife, and gives lachimo per- 
mission to tempt her, is taken from the story. The 
baseness and folly of such conduct have been justly 
censured ; but Shakspeare, feeling that Posthumus 
needed every excuse, has managed the quarrelling 
scene between him and lachimo with the most a-d- 



270 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

mirable skill. The manner in which his high spirit 
is gradually worked up by the taunts of this Italian 
fiend, is contrived with far more probability, and 
much less coarseness, than in the original tale. In 
the end he is not the challenger, but the challenged ; 
and could hardly (except on a moral principle, 
much too refined for those rude times) have declined 
the wager without compromising his own courage, 
and his faith in the honor of Imogen. 

lACHIMO. 

I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. 

POSTHUMUS. 

You are a great deal abused in too bold a persuasion ; 
and I doubt not you sustain what you're worthy of, by 
your attempt. 

lACHIMO. 

What's that? 

POSTHUMUS. 

A repulse : though your attempt, as you call it, deserve 
more — a punishment too. 

PHILAKIO. 

Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; 
let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better ac- 
quainted. 

lACHIMO. 

Would I had put my estate and my neighbor's on the 
approbation of what I have said ! 

POSTHUMUS. 

What lady would you choose to assaU ? 

lACHIMO. 

Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. 



IMOGEN. 271 

In the interview betiveen Imogen and lachimo, 
he does not begin his attack on her virtue by a 
direct accusation against Posthumus ; but by dark 
hints and half-uttered insinuations, such as lago 
uses to madden Othello, he intimates that her hus- 
band, in his absence from her, has betrayed her love 
and truth, and forgotten her in the arms of another. 
All that Imogen says in this scene is comprised in a 
few lines — a brief question, or a more brief remark. 
The proud and delicate reserve with which she 
veils the anguish she suffers, is inimitably beautiful. 
The strongest expression of reproach he can draw 
from her, is only, " My lord, I fear, has forgot 
Britain." When he continues in the same strain, 
she exclaims in an agony, " Let me hear no more." 
When he urges her to revenge, she asks, with all 
the simplicity of virtue, " How should I be re- 
venged ? " And when he explains to her how she is 
to be avenged, her sudden burst of indignation, 
and her immediate perception of his treachery, and 
the motive for it, are powerfully fine : it is not 
only the anger of a woman whose delicacy has been 
shocked, but the spirit of a princess insulted in her 
court. 

Away ! I do condemn mine ears, that have 
So long attended thee. If thou wert honorable. 
Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not 
For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. 
Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far 
From thy report as thou from honor; and 
Solicit' st here a lady that disdains 
Thee and the devil alike. 



272 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

It has been remarked, that "her readiness to - 
pardon lachimo's false imputation, and his designs 
against herself, is a good lesson to prudes, and may 
show that where there is a real attachment to virtue, 
there is no need of an outrageous antipathy to 
vice." * 

This is true ; but can we fail to perceive that the 
instant and ready forgiveness of Imogen is ac- 
counted for, and rendered more graceful and char- 
acteristic by the very means which lachimo employs 
to win it ? He pours forth the most enthusiastic 
praises of her husband, professes that he merely 
made this trial of her out of his exceeding love for 
Posthumus, and she is pacified at once ; but, with 
exceeding delicacy of feeling, she is represented as 
maintaining her dignified reserve and her brevity 
of speech to the end of the scene, f ' 

We must also observe how beautifully the char- 
acter of Imogen is distinguished from those of Des- 
demona and Hermione. When she is made ac- 
quainted with her husband's cruel suspicions, we 
see in her deportment neither the meek submission 
of the former, nor the calm resolute dignity of the 
latter. The first eflTect produced on her by her 
husband's letter is conveyed to the fancy by the 
exclamation of Pisanio, who is gazing on her as she 
reads : — 

What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper 

♦Characters of Shakspeare's Plays, 
t Vide act i. scene 7. 



IMOGEX. 273 

Has cut her tm-oat already ! No, 'tis sLmder, 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ! 

And in her first exclamations we trace, besides as- 
tonisliment and anguish, and the acute sense of the 
injustice infli(;ted on her, a flash of indignant spirit, 
■which we do not find in Desdemona or Hermione. 

False to his bed ! — What is it to be false? 

To lie in watch there, and to think of him? 

To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? If sleep charge nature, 

To break it with a fearful dream of him, 

And cry myself awake ? — that's false to his bed, 

Is it? 

• 

This is followed by that affecting lamentation 
over the fidsehood and injustice of her husband, in 
which she betrays no atom of jealousy or wounded 
self-love, but observes in the extremity of her an- 
guish, that after his lapse from truth, " all good 
seeming would be discredited," and she then re- 
signs herself to his will with the most entire sub- 
mission. 

In the original story, Zinevra prevails on the 
servant to spare her, by her exclamations and en- 
treaties for mercy. " The lady, seeing the poniard, 
and hearing those words, exclaimed in terror, 
* Alas ! have pity on me for the love of Heaven ! 
do not become the slayer of one who never offend- 
ed thee, only to pleasure another. God, who 
knows all things, knows that I have never done 
that which could merit such a reward trom my 
husband's hand.' " 

18 



274 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

Now let us turn to Shakspeare. Imogen says, — 

Come, fellow, be thou honest ; 
Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou seest him, 
A little witness my obedience. Look 1 
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit 
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. 
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but gi'ief: 
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed. 
The riches of it. Do his bidding ; strike ! 

The devoted attachment of Pisanio to his royal 
mistress, all through the piece, is one of those side 
touches by which "Shakspeare knew how to give 
additional effect to his characters. 

Cloten is odious ; * but we must not overlook the 
peculiar fitness and propriety of his character, in 
connection with that of Imogen. He is precisely 
the kind of man who would be most intolerable to 
such a woman. He is a fool, — so is Slender, and 



* The character of Cloten has been pronounced by some un- 
natural, by others inconsistent, and by others obsolete. The 
following passage occurs in one of Miss Seward's letters, vol. iii. 
p. 246: " It is curious that Shakspeare should, in so singular a 
character as Cloten, have given the exact prototype of a being 
whom I once knew. The unmeaning frown of countenance, the 
fihuflaing gait, the burst of voice, the bustling insignificance, the 
fever and ague fits of valor, the froward tetchiness, the unprin- 
cipled malice, and, what is more curious, those occasional gleams 
of good sense amidst the floating clouds of folly which generally 
darkened and confused the man's brain, and which, in the char- 
acter of Cloten, we are apt to impute to a violation of unity in 

character ; but in the some-time Captain C , I saw that the 

portrait of Cloten was not out of nature." 



IMOGEN. 275 

Sir Andrew Aguecheek : but tha folly of Cloten is 
not only ridiculous, but hateful ; it arises not so 
much from a want of understanding as a total want 
of heart ; it is the perversion of sentiment, rather 
than the deficiency of intellect ; he has occasional 
gleams of sense, but never a touch of feeling. 
Imogen describes herself not only as " sprighted 
with a fool," but as " frighted and anger'd worse." 
No other fool but Cloten — a compound of the boo- 
by and the villain — could excite in such a mind as 
Imogen's the same mixture of terror, contempt, 
and abhorrence. The stupid, obstinate malignity 
of Cloten, and the wicked machinations of the 
queen — 

A father cniel, and a step-dame false, 
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady — 

justify whatever might need excuse in the conduct 
of Imogen — as her concealed marriage and her 
flight from her father's court — and serve to call out 
several of the most beautiful and striking parts 
of her character : particularly that decision and 
vivacity of temper, which in her harmonize so 
beautifully with exceeding delicacy, sweetness, and 
submission. 

In the scene with her detested suitor, there is at 
first a careless majesty of disdain, which is admira- 
ble. 

I am much sorry, sir. 
You put me to forget a lady's manners. 
By being so verbal ; * and learn now, for all, 

* i. e.full of ivords. 



276 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, 

By the very truth of it, I care not for you, 

And am so near the lack of charity, 

(T' accuse myself,) I hate you; which I had rather 

You felt, than make 't my boast. 

But when he dares to provoke her, by reviling 
the absent Posthumus, her indignation heightens 
her scorn, and her scorn sets a keener edge on her 
indignation. 

CLOTEN. 

For the contract you pretend with that base wretch, 
One bred of alms, and fostered with cold dishes. 
With scraps o' the court ; it is no contract, none. 

IMOGEN. 

Profane fellow ! 
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more, 
But what thou art, besides, thou wert too base 
To be his groom; thou wert dignified enough. 
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made_ 
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd 
The under hangman of his kingdom ; and hated 
For being preferr'd so well. 

He never can meet moi-e mischance than come 
To be but nam'd of thee. His meanest garment 
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer 
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee, 
Were they all made such men. 

One thing more must be particularly remarked, 
because it serves to individualize the character, 
from the beginning to the end of the poem. We 
are constantly sensible that Imogen, besides being 



IMOGEN. 277 

a tender and devoted woman, is a princess and a 
beauty, at the same time that she is ever superior 
to her position and her external charms. There is, 
for instance, a certain airy majesty of deportment 
— a spirit of accustomed command breaking out 
every now and then — the dignity, without the as- 
sumption of rank and royal birth, which is appar- 
ent in the scene with Cloten and elsewhere ; and 
we have not only a general impression that Imogen, 
like other heroines, is beautiful, but the peculiar 
style and character of her beauty is placed before 
us : we have an image of the most luxuriant love- 
liness, combined with exceeding delicacy, and even 
fragility of person : of the most refined elegance, 
and the most exquisite modesty, set forth in one or 
two passages of description ; as when lachimo is 
contemplating her asleep : — 

Cytherea, 
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! fresh lily. 
And whiter than the sheets. 

'Tis her breathing that 
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper 
Bows toward her; and would underpeep her lids 
To see the enclos'd lights, now canopied 
Under those windows, white and azure, lac'd 
With blue of heaven's own tinct ! 

The preservation of her feminine character 
under her masculine attire ; her delicacy, her 
modesty, and her timidity, are managed with the 
same perfect consistency and unconscious grace as 
in Viola. And we must not forjzet that her " neat 



278 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

cookery," whicli is so prettily eulogized by Guide- 
rius : — 

He cuts out roots in characters, 

And sauc'd our broths, as Juno had been sick, 

And he her dieter, 

formed part of the education of a princess in those 
remote times. 

Few reflections of a general nature are put into 
the mouth of Imogen ; and what she says is more 
remarkable for sense, truth, and tender feeling, 
than for wit, or wisdom, or power of imagination. 
The following little touch of poetry reminds us of 
Juliet : — 

Ere I could 
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set 
Between two changing words, comes in my father; 
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north. 
Shakes all our buds from growing. 

Her exclamation on opening her husband's letter, 
reminds us of the profound and thoughtful tender- 
ness of Helen : — 

learned indeed were that astronomer 
That kneAv the stars, as I his characters ! 
He'd lay the future open. 

The following are more in the manner of 
Isabel : — 

Most miserable 
Is the desire that's glorious: bless'd be those, 
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, 
That seasons comfort. 



IMOGEN. 279 

Against self-slaugliter 
There is a prohibition so divine 
That cravens my weak hand. 

Thus may poor fools 

Believe false teachers; though those that arebetray'd 

Do feel the reason sharply, yet the traitor 

Stands in worse case of woe, 

Are Ave not brothers V 

So man and man should be ; 
But clay and clay differs in dignity, 
Whose dust is both alike. 

Will poor folks lie 
That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis 
A punishment or trial ? Yes : no wonder, 
When rich ones scarce tell ti'ue : to lapse in fuhiess 
Is sorer than to lie for need ; and falsehood 
Is worse in kings than beggars. 

The sentence which folloAvs, and which I believe 
has become proverbial, has much of the manner of 
Portia, both in the thought and the exj)ression : — 

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, 
Are they not but in Britain ? I' the world's volume 
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it ; 
In a great pool, a swan's nest; pr'ythee, think 
There's livers out of Britain. 

***** 

The catastrophe of this play has been much 
admired for the peculiar skill with which all the 
various threads of interest are gathered together 
at last, and entwined with the destiny of Imogen. 
It may be added, that one of its chief beauties is 



280 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

the manner in which the character of Imogen is 
not only preserved, but rises upon us to the con- 
clusion with added grace : her instantaneous for- 
giveness of her husband before he even asks it, 
when she flings herself at once into his arms — 

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you ? 

and her magnanimous reply to her father, when he 
tells her, that by the discovery of her two brothers 
she has lost a kingdom — 

No — I have gain'd two worlds by it — 

clothing a noble sentiment in a noble image, give 
the finishing touches of excellence to this most 
enchanting portrait. 

On the whole, Imogen is a lovely compound of 
goodness, truth, and affection, with just so much of 
passion and intellect and poetry, as serve to lend 
to the picture that power and glowing richness of 
effect which it would otherwise have wanted ; and 
of her it might be said, if we could condescend to 
quote from any other poet with Shakespeare open 
before us, that "her person was a paradise, and her 
soul the cherub to guard it." * 



CORDELIA. 

There is in the beauty of Cordelia's character 
»n effect too sacred for "words, and ahnost too deep 

* Dry den. 



CORDELIA. 281 

for tears ; Tvithin her heart is a fathomless well of 
purest affection, but its waters sleep in silence and 
obscurity, — never failing in their depth and never 
overflowing in their fulness. Every thing in her 
seems to lie beyond our view, and affects us in a 
manner which we feel rather than perceive. The 
character appears to have no surface, no salient 
points upon which the fancy can readily seize : 
there is little external development of intellect, 
less of passion, and still less of imagination. It is 
completely made out in the course of a few scenes, 
and we are surprised to find that in those few 
scenes there is matter for a life of reflection, and 
materials enough for twenty heroines. If I^ear be 
the grandest of Shakspeare's tragedies, Cordelia 
in herself, as a human being, governed by the 
purest and holiest impulses and motives, the most 
refined from all dross of selfishness and passion, 
approaches near to perfection ; and in her adapta- 
tion, as a dramatic personage, to a determinate 
plan of action, may be pronounced altogether per- 
fect. The character, to speak of it critically as a 
poetical conception, is not, however, to be compre- 
hended at once, or easily ; and in the same manner 
Cordelia, as a woman, is one whom we must have 
loved before we could have known her, and known 
her long before we could have known her truly. 

Most people, I believe, have heard the story 
of the young German artist Miiller, who, while 
employed in copying and engraving Raffaelle's 
Madonna del Sisto, was so penetrated by its celes- 



282 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

tial beauty, so distrusted his own power to do 
justice to it, that between admiration and despair 
he fell into a sadness ; thence through the usual 
gradations, into a melancholy, thence into madness ; 
and died just as he had put the finishing stroke to 
his own matchless work, which had occupied him 
for eight years. With some slight tinge of this 
concentrated kind of enthusiasm I have learned to 
contemplate the character of Cordelia ; I have 
looked into it till the revelation of its hidden 
beauty, and an intense feeling of the wonderful 
genius which created it, have filled me at once 
with delight and despair. Like poor Miiller, but 
with more reason, I do despair of ever conveying, 
through a difierent and inferior medium, the im- 
pression made on my own mind to the mind of 
another. 

Schlegel, the most eloquent of critics, concludes 
his remarks on King Lear with these words : " Of 
the heavenly beauty of soul of Cordelia, I will not 
venture to speak." Now if I attempt what Schlegel 
and others have left undone, it is because I feel 
that this general acknowledgment of her excellence 
can neither satisfy those who have studied the 
character, nor convey a just conception of it to 
the mere reader. Amid the awful, the overpower- 
ing interest of the story, amid the terrible convul- 
sions of passion and suffering, and pictures of 
moral and physical wretchedness which harrow up 
the soul, the tender influence of Cordelia, like 



CORDELIA. 283 

without being quite understood. Like a soft star 
that shines for a moment from behind a stormy 
cloud and the next is swallowed up in tempest 
and darkness, the impression it leaves is beautiful 
and deep, — but vague. Speak of Cordelia to a 
critic or to a general reader, all agree in the 
beauty of the portrait, for all must feel it; but 
when we come to details, I have heard more 
various and opposite opinions relative to her than 
any other of Shakspeare's characters — a proof of 
what I have advanced in the first instance, that 
from the simplicity with which the character is 
dramatically treated, and the small space it occu- 
pies, few are aware of its internal power, or its 
wonderful depth of purpose. 

It appears to me that the whole character rests 
upon the two sublimest principles of human action, 
the love of truth and the sense of duty ; but these, 
when they stand alone, (as in the Antigone,) are 
apt to strike us as severe and cold. Shakspeare 
has, therefore, wreathed them round with the 
dearest attributes of our feminine nature, the 
power of feeling and inspiring affection. The 
first part of the play shows us how Cordelia is 
loved, the second part how she can love. To 
her father she is the object of a secret preference ; 
his agony at her supposed unkindness draws from 
him the confession, that he had loved her most, 
and " thought to set his rest on her kind nursery." 
Till then she had been " his best object, the argu- 
ment of his praise, balm of his age, most best, most 



284 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

dearest ! " The faithful and worthy Kent is ready 
to brave death and exile in her defence : and 
afterwards a farther impression of her benign 
sweetness is conveyed in a simple and beautiful 
manner, when we are told that " since the lady 
Cordelia went to France, her father's poor fool 
had much pined away." We have her sensibility 
" when patience and sorrow strove which should 
express her goodliest : " and all her filial tenderness 
when she commits her poor father to the care of 
the physician, when she hangs over him as he is 
sleeping, and kisses him as she contemplates the 
wreck of grief and majesty. 

my dear father ! restoration hang 

Its medicine on my lips: and let this kiss 

Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 

Have in thy reverence made ! 

Had you not been their father, these white flakes 

Had challenged pity of them ! Was this a face 

To be exposed against the wari'ing winds, 

To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, 

In the most terrible and nimble stroke 

Of quick cross lightning? to watch, (poor perdu!) 

With thin helm? mine enemy's dog. 

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 

Against my fire. 

Her mild magnanimity shines out in her farewell 
to her sisters, of whose real character she is per- 
fectly aware : — 

Ye jewels of our father ! with washed eyes 
Cordelia leaves you ! I know ye what ye are, 
And like a sister, am most loath to call 



CORDELIA. 285 

Your faults as they are nam' d. Use well our father, 
To your professed bosoms I commit him. 
But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace, 
I Avould commend him to a better place ; 
So farewell to you both. 

GONERIL. 

Prescribe not us our duties ! 

The modest pride witli which she replies to the 
Duke of Burgundy is admirable ; this whole pas- 
sage is too illustrative of the peculiar character of 
Cordelia, as well as too exquisite, to be mutilated. 

I yet beseech your majesty, 
(If, for I want that glib and oily heart, 
To-speak and purpose not, since what I well intend 
I'll do't before I speak,) that you make known, 
It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 
Ko unchaste action, or dishonored step 
That hath deprived me of your grace and favor ; 
But even for want of that, for which I am richer; 
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
I am glad I have not, tho' not to have it 
Hath lost me in your liking. 

LEAR. 

Better thou 
Hadst not been bom, than not to have pleased me better. 

FRANCE. 

Is it but this? a tardiness of nature. 
That often leaves the history unspoke 
Which it intends to do ? — My lord of Burgundy, 
What say you to the lady ? love is not love 
When it is mingled with respects that stand 



286 CHARACTERS OP THE AFFECTIONS. 

Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her ? 
She is herself a dowry. 

BURGUNDY. 

Royal Lear, 
Give but that portion which yourself px'oposed, 
And here I take Cordelia by the hand 
Duchess of Burgundy. 

LEAR. 

Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm. 

BURGUNDY. 

I am sorry, then, you have lost a father 
That you must lose a husband. 

CORDELIA. 

Peace be with Burgundy! 
Since that respects of fortune are his love, 
I shall not be his wife. 

FRANCE. 

Fairest Cordelia ! thou art more rich, being poor, 
Most choice, forsaken, and most lov'd, despised! 
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. 

She takes up arms, " not for ambition, but a dear 
father's right." In her speech after her defeat, we 
have a calm fortitude and elevation of soul, arising 
from the consciousness of duty, and lifting her 
above all consideration of self. She observes, — 

We are not the first 
Who with best meaning have incurred the worst I 

She thinks and fears only for her father. 



CORDELIA. 287 

For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; 
Jlyself would else out- frown false fortune's frown. 

To complete the picture, her very voice is char- 
acteristic, " ever soft, gentle, and low ; an excel- 
lent tiling in woman." 

But it will be said, that the qualities here ex- 
emplified — as sensibility, gentleness, magnanimity, 
fortitude, generous affection — are qualities which 
belong, in their perfection, to others of Shaks- 
peare's characters — to Imogen, for instance, who 
unites them all ; and yet Imogen and Cordelia are 
wholly unlike each other. Even though we should 
reverse- their situations, and give to Imogen the 
filial devotion of Cordelia, and to Cordelia the con- 
jugal virtues of Imogen, still they would remain 
perfectly distinct as women. What is it, then, 
which lends to Cordelia that peculiar and indi- 
vidual truth of character, which distinguishes her 
from every other human being ? 

It is a natural reserve, a tardiness of disposition, 
" which often leaves the history un spoke which it 
intends to do ;" a subdued quietness of deportment 
and expression, a veiled shyness thrown over all 
her emotions, her language and her manner; mak- 
ing the outward demonstration invariably fall short 
of Avhat we know to be the feehng within. Not 
only is the portrait singularly beautiful and inter- 
esting in itself, but the conduct of Cordelia, and 
the part which she bears in the beginning of the 
story, is rendered consistent and natural by the 
wonderful truth and delicacy with which this 



288 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

peculiar disposition is sustained throughout the 
play. 

In early youth, and more particularly if we are 
gifted with a lively imagination, such a character as 
that of CordeHa is calculated above every other to 
impress and captivate us. Any thing like myster}', 
any thing withheld or withdrawn from our notice, 
seizes on our fancy by awakening oui^ curiosity. 
Then we are won more by what we half perceive 
and half create, than by what is openly expressed 
and freely bestowed. But this feeling is a part of 
our young life : when time and years have chilled 
us, when we can no longer afford to send our souls 
abroad, nor from our own superfluity of life and 
sensibility spare "the materials out of which we build 
a shrine for our Idol — then do we seek, we ask, we 
thirst for that warmth of frank, confiding tender- 
ness, which revives in us the withered aifections 
and feelings, buried but not dead. Then the ex- 
cess of love is welcomed, not repelled : it is gra- 
cious to us as the sun and dew to the seared and 
riven trunk, with Its few green leaves. Lear is old 
— " fourscore and upward" — but we see what he 
has been in former days : the ardent passions of 
youth have turned to rashness and wilfulness : he is 
long passed that age when we are more blessed in 
what we bestow than in what we receive. When he 
says to his daughters, " I gave ye all ! " we feel that 
he requires all in return, with a jealous, restless, 
exacting affection which defeats its own wishes. 
How many such are there In the world ! How many 



• CORDELIA. 289 

to sympathize with the fiery, fond old man, when he 
shrinks as if petrified from Cordelia's quiet calm 
reply ! 

LEAR. 

Now our joy, 
Although the last not least — 
What can you say to draw 
A third more opulent than your sisters' ? Speak ! 

CORDELIA. 

Nothing, my lord. 

LEAR. 

Nothmg ! 

CORDELIA. 

Nothing. 

LEAR. 

Nothing. can come of nothing: speak again! 

CORDELIA. 

Unhappy that I am ! I cannot heave 

My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty 

According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. 

Now this is perfectly natural. Cordelia has pen- 
etrated the vile characters of her sisters. Is it 
not obvious, that, in proportion as her own mind is 
pure and guileless, she must be disgusted with their 
gross hypocrisy and exaggeration, their empty 
protestations, their " plaited cunning ; " and would 
retire from all competition with what she so dis- 
dains and abhors, — even into the opposite extreme ? 
In such a case, as she says herself — 

What should Cordelia do? — love and be silent? 

For the very expressions of Lear — 
19 



290 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

What can you say to draw 
A third more opulent than your sisters' ? 

are enough to strike dumb forever a generous, del- 
icate, but shy disposition, such as Cordeha's, by- 
holding out a bribe for professions. 

If Cordelia were not thus portrayed, this de- 
liberate coolness would strike us as verging on 
harshness or obstinacy ; but it is beautifully repre- 
sented as a certain modification of character, the 
necessary result of feelings habitually, if not natur- 
ally, repressed: and through the whole play we 
trace the same peculiar and individual disposition — 
the same absence of all display — the same sobriety 
of speech veiling the most profound affections — the 
same quiet steadiness of purpose — the same shrink- 
ing from all exhibition of emotion. 

" Tons les sentlmens naturels ont leur pudeur," 
was a viva voce observation of Madame de Stael, 
when disgusted by the sentimental affectation of 
her imitators. This " pudeur," carried to an ex- 
cess, appears to me the peculiar characteristic of 
Cordelia. Thus, in the description of her deport- 
ment when she receives the letter of the Earl of 
Kent, informing her of the cruelty of her sisters 
and the wretched condition of Lear, we seem to 
have her before us : — 

KEJfT. 

Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of 
grief? 

GENTLEMAN. 

Ay, sir, she took them, and read them ui my presence ; 



CORDELIA. 291 

And now and then an ample tear stole down 
Her delicate check. It seemed she was a queen 
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like 
Sought to be king over her. 



then it moved her ! 

GENTLEMAN. 

Not to a rage. 
Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of father 
Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart, 
Cried, Sisters ! sisters ! Shame of ladies ! Sisters ! 
Wliat, i' the stoivii f i' the night ? 
Let pity not be believed. Then she shook 
The holy water from her heavenly eyes ; 

***** 

Then away she started, 
To deal with grief alone. 

Here the last line — the imaore brought before us 
of Cordelia starting away from observation, "to 
deal with grief alone," is as exquisitely beautiful 
as it is characteristic. 

But all the passages hitherto quoted must yield 
in beauty and power to that scene, in which her 
poor father recognizes her, and in the intervals of 
distraction asks forgiveness of his wronged child. 
The subdued pathos and simplicity of Cordelia's 
character, her quiet but intense feeling, the misery 
and humiliation of the bewildered old man, are 
brought before us in so few words, and at the same 
time sustained with such a deep intuitive knowledge 
of the innermost workinsrs of the human heart, that 



292 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

as there is nothini^ surpassing this scene in Shaks- 
peare himself, so there is nothing that can be com- 
pared to it in any other writer. 

CORDELIA. 

How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty? 

LEAR. 

You do me wrong to take me out of the grave. 
Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound 
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
Do scald like molten lead. 

CORDELIA. 

Sir, do you know me ? 

LEAR. 

You are a spirit, I know : when did you die ? 

CORDELIA. 

Still, still far wide ! 

PHYSICIAN. 

He's scarce awake : let him alone awhile. 

LEAK. 

Where have I been ? Where am I ? Fair daylight ! 
I am mightily abused. 1 should even die with pity 
To see another thus. I know not what to say. 
I will not swear these are my hands: Let's see. 
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 
Of my condition. 

CORDELIA. 

look upon me, sir, 
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me: — ■ 
No, sir, you must not kneel. 

LEAR. 

Pray, do not mock me : 
1 am a very foolish, fond old man, 



CORDELIA. 293 

Fourscore and upwards ; and to deal plainly Avith you, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks I should know you, and know this man, 
Yet I am doubtful: fori am mainly ignorant 
What place this is; and all the skiU I have 
Kemembers not these garments ; nor I know not 
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; 
For as I am a man, I think this lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

CORDELIA. 

And so I am, I am. 

LEAR. 

Be your tears wet ? Yes, faith. I pray you weep not. 
If you have poison for me I wiU drink it. 
I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: 
You have some cause, they have not. 

CORDELIA. 

No cause, no cause ! 

As we do not estimate Cordelia's aiFection for 
her father by the coldness of her language, so 
neither should we measure her indignation against 
her sisters by the mildness of her expressions. 
What, in fact, can be more eloquently significant, 
and at the same time more characteristic of Cordelia, 
than the single line when she and her father are 
conveyed to their prison : — 

Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters f 

The irony here is so bitter and intense, and at the 
same time so quiet, so feminine, so dignified in the 
expression, that who but Cordelia would have 



294 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

uttered it in the same manner, or would have con- 
densed such ample meaning into so few and simple 
words ? 

We lose sight of Cordelia during the whole of 
the second and third, and great part of the fourth 
act ; but towards the conclusion she reappears. 
Just as our sense of human misery and wickedness, 
being carried to its extreme height, becomes nearly- 
intolerable, " like an engine wrenching our frame 
of nature from its fixed place," then, like a redeem- 
ing angel, she descends to mingle in the scene, 
" loosening the springs of pity in our eyes," and 
relieving the impressions of pain and terror by 
those of admiration and a tender pleasure. For 
the catastrophe, it is indeed terrible ! wondrous ter- 
rible ! When Lear enters with Cordelia dead in 
his arms, compassion and awe so seize on all our 
faculties, that we are left only to silence and to 
tears. But if I might j udge from my own sensa- 
tions, the catastrophe of Lear is not so overwhelm- 
ing as the catastrophe of Othello. We do not turn 
away with the same feeling of absolute unmitigated 
despair. Cordelia is a saint ready prepared for 
heaven — our earth is not good enough for her : and 
Lear ! — O who, after sufferings and tortures such as 
his, would wish to see his life prolonged ? What ! 
replace a sceptre in that shaking hand ? — a crown 
upon that old gray head, on which the tempest had 
poured in its wrath ? — on which the deep dread- 
bolted thunders and the winged lightnings had 
spent their fury ? O never, never ! 



CORDELIA. 295 

Let him pass! he hates hhn 

That would upon the rack of this rough "world 

Stretch him out longer. 

In the story of King Lear and his three daugh- 
ters, as it is related in the " delectable and 
mellifluous " romance of Perceforest, and in the 
Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, the conclusion 
is fortunate. Cordelia defeats her sisters, and re- 
places her father on his throne. Spenser, in his 
version of the story, has followed these authorities. 
Shakspeare has preferred the catastrophe of the 
old ballad, founded apparently on some lost tradi- 
tion. I suppose it is by way of amending his errors, 
and bringing back this daring innovator to sober 
history, that it has been thought fit to alter the play 
of Lear for the stage, as they have altered Romeo 
and Juliet : they have converted the seraph-like 
Cordelia into a puling love heroine, and sent her 
off victorious at the end of the play — exit with 
drums and colors flying — to be married to Edgar. 
Now any thing more absurd, more discordant with 
all our previous impressions, and with the characters 
as unfolded to us, can hardly be imagined. " I 
cannot conceive," says Schlegel, " what ideas of 
art and dramatic connection those persons have, 
who suppose we can at pleasure tack a double 
conclusion to a tragedy — a melancholy one for 
hard-hearted spectators, and a merry one for those 
of softer mould." The fierce manners depicted in 
this play, the extremes of virtue and vice in the 



296 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

persons, belong to tlie remote period of the story.* 
There is no attempt at character in the old nar- 
ratives ; Regan and Goneril are monsters of in- 
gratitude, and Cordelia merely distinguished by her 
filial piety ; whereas, in Shakspeare, this filial piety 
is an affection quite distinct from the qualities 
•which serve to individualize the human being; we 
have a perception of innate character apart from 
all accidental circumstance: we see that if Cor- 
delia had never known her father, had never been 
rejected from his love, had never been a born 
princess or a crowned queen, she would not have 
been less Cordelia ; less distinctly herself ; that is, a 
woman of a steady mind, of calm but deep affections, 
of inflexible truth, of few words, and of reserved 
deportment. 

As to Regan and Goneril — " tigers, not daugh- 
ters" — we might wish to regard them as mere 
hateful chimeras, impossible as they are detestable ; 
but fortunately there was once a Tullia. I know 
not where to look for the prototype of Cordelia : 
there was a Julia Alpinula, the young priestess of 
Aventicum, f who, unable to save her father's life 
by the sacrifice of her own, died with him — '* infelix 
patris, infelix proles" — but this is all we know of 
her. There was the Roman daughter, too. I re- 

* King Tjcar may be supposed to have liyed about one thousand 
years before the Christian era, being the forth or fifth in descent 
from liing Brut, the great-grandson of iEncas, and the fabulous 
founder of the kingdom of Britain. 

t She is commemorated by Lord Byron. Vide Childe Harold, 
Canto iii. 



CORDELIA. 297 

member seeing at Genoa, Guido's " Picta Romana," 
in wliicli the expression of the female bending over 
the aged parent, who feeds from her bosom, is per- 
fect, — but it is not a Cordelia : only RafFaelle could 
have painted Cordelia. 

But the character which at once suggests itself 
in comparison with Cordelia, as the heroine of filial 
tenderness and piety, is certainly the Antigone of 
Sophocles. As poetical conceptions, they rest oa 
the same basis : they are both pure abstractions of 
truth, piety, and natural affection ; and in both, 
love, as a passion, is kept entirely out of sight : for 
though the womanly character is sustained, by 
making them the objects of devoted attachment, 
yet to have portrayed them as influenced by pas- 
sion, would have destroyed that unity of purpose 
and feeling which is one source of power ; and, 
besides, have disturbed that serene purity and 
grandeur of soul, which equally distinguishes both 
heroines. The spirit, however, in wliich the two 
characters are conceived, is as different as possible ; 
and we must not fail to remark, that Antigone, who 
plays a principal part in two fine tragedies, and is 
distinctly and completely made out, is considered 
as a masterpiece, the very triumph of the ancient 
classical drama ; whereas, there are many among 
Shakspeare's characters which are equal to Cordelia 
as dramatic conceptions, and superior to her in 
finishing of outline, as well as in the richness of the 
poetical coloring. 

When (Edipus, pursued by the vengeance of the 



298 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS 

gods, deprived of sight by his own mad act, and 
driven from Thebes by his subjects and his sons, 
wanders forth, abject and forlorn, he is supported 
by his daughter Antigone ; who leads him from city 
to city, begs for him, and pleads for him against the 
harsh, rude men, who, struck more by his guilt than 
his misery, would drive him from his last asylum. 
In the opening of the " (Edipus Coloneus," where 
the wretched old man appears leaning on his 
child, and seats himself in the consecrated Grove 
of the Furies, the picture presented to us is won- 
derfully solemn and beautiful. The patient, duteous 
tenderness of Antigone ; the scene in which she 
pleads for her brother Polynices, and supplicates 
her father to receive his offending son ; her remon- 
strance to Polynices, when she entreats him not to 
carry the threatened war into his native country, 
are finely and powerfully delineated ; and in her 
lamentation over Oedipus, when he perishes in the 
mysterious grove, there is a pathetic beauty, appar- 
ent even through the stiffness of the translation. 

Alas ! I only wished I might have died 

With my poor ftither; wherefoi-e should I ask 

For longer life ? 

I was fond of misery with him; 

E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved 

When he was with me. my dearest father, 

Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid. 

Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still 

Wert dear, and shalt be ever. 

— Even as he wished he died. 

In a strange land — for such was his desire — 



CORDELIA. 299 

A shady tiirf covered his lifeless limbs, 
Kor unlamented fell ! for these eyes, 
My father, still shall weep for thee, nor time 
E'er blot thee from my memory. 
The filial piety of Antigone is the most affecting 
part of the tragedy of " (Edipus Coloneus : " her 
sisterly affection, and her heroic self-devotion to a 
religious duty, form the plot of the tragedy called 
by her name. When her two brothers, Eteocles 
and Polynices, had slain each other before the 
walls of Thebes, Creon issued an edict forbidding 
the rites of sepulture to Polynices, (as the invader 
of his country,) and awarding instant death to 
those who should dare to bury him. We know 
the importance which the ancients attached to the 
funeral obsequies, as alone securing their admission 
into the Elysian fields. Antigone, upon hearing 
the law of Creon, which thus carried vengeance 
beyond the grave, enters in the first scene, an- 
nouncing her fixed resolution to brave the threat- 
ened punishment : her sister Ismene shrinks from 
sharing the peril of such an undertaking, and 
endeavors to dissuade her from it, on which An- 
tigone replies : — 

Wert thou to proffer what I do not ask— 

Thy poor assistance — I would scorn it now; 

Act as thou wilt, I'll bury him myself: 

Let me perform but that, and death is welcome. 

I'll do the pious deed, and lay me down 

By my dear brother; loving and beloved, 

We'll rest together. 

She proceeds to execute her generous purpose ; 



300 CHARACTERS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

she covers with earth the mangled corse of Poly- 
nices, pours over it the accustomed libations, is 
detected in her pious office, and after nobly defend- 
ing her conduct, is led to death by command of 
the tyrant : her sister Ismene, struck with shame 
and remorse, now comes forward to accuse her- 
self as a partaker in the offence, and share her 
sister's punishment; but Antigone sternly and 
scornfully rejects her; and after pouring forth a 
beautiful lamentation on the misery of perishing 
" without the nuptial song — a virgin and a slave," 
she dies a Vantique — she strangles herself to avoid 
a lingering death. 

Hemon, the son of Creon, unable to save her 
life, kills himself upon her grave : but throughout 
the whole tragedy we are left in doubt whether 
Antigone does or does not return the affection of 
this devoted lover. 

Thus it will be seen that in the Antigone there 
is a great deal of what may be called the effect of 
situation, as well as a great deal of poetry and 
character : she says the most beautiful things in 
the world, performs the most heroic actions, and 
all her words and actions are so placed before us 
as to command our admiration. '> According to the 
classical ideas of virtue and heroism, the character 
is sublime, and in the delineation there is a severe 
simplicity mingled with its Grecian grace, a unity, 
a grandeur, an elegance, which appeal to our taste 
and our understanding, while they fill and exalt 
the imagination : but in Cordelia it is not the 



CORDELIA. 30i. 

external coloring or form, it is not what she says or 
does, but "what she is in herself, what she feels, 
thinks, and suffers, which continually awaken 
our sympathy and interest. The heroism of Cor- 
delia is more passive and tender — it melts into our 
heart ; and in the veiled loveliness and unostenta- 
tious delicacy of her character, there is an effect 
more profound and artless, if it be less striking and 
less elaborate than in the Grecian heroine. To 
Antigone we give our admiration, to Cordelia our 
tears. Antigone stands before us in her austere 
and statue-like beauty, like one of the marbles of 
the Parthenon. If Cordelia reminds us of any 
thing on earth, it is of one of the Madonnas in the 
old Italian pictures, " with downcast eyes beneath 
th' almighty dove ? " and as that heavenly form is 
connected with our human sympathies only by the 
expression of maternal tenderness or maternal 
sorrow, even so Cordelia would be almost too 
angelic, were she not linked to our earthly feelings, 
bound to our very hearts, by her filial love, her 
wrongs, her sufferings, and her tears. 



HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 



CLEOPATRA 

I CANNOT agree with one of the most philo- 
sophical of Shakspeare's critics, who has asserted 
" that the actual truth of particular events, in pro- 
portion as we are conscious of it, is a drawback 
on the pleasure as well as the dignity of 
tragedy." If this observation applies at all, it is 
equally just with regard to characters : and in 
either case can we admit it ? The reverence and 
the simpleness of heart with which Shakspeare 
has treated the received and admitted truths of 
history — I mean according to the imperfect knowl- 
edge of his time — is admirable ; his inaccuracies 
are few : his general accuracy, allowing for the 
distinction between the narrative and the dramatic 
form, is acknowledged to be wonderful. He did 
not steal the precious material from the treasury of 
history, to debase its purity, — new-stamp it arbi- 
trarily with effigies and legends of his own devising, 
and then attempt to pass it current, like Dryden, 
Racine, and the rest of those poetical coiners : he 
only rubbed off the rust, purified and brightened 
it, so that history herself has been known to 
receive it back as sterling. 



CLEOPATRA. 303 

Truth, wherever manifested, should be sacred : 
so Shakspeare deemed, and laid no profane hand 
upon her altars. But tragedy — majestic tragedy, 
is worthy to stand before the sanctuary of 
Truth, and to be the priestess of her oracles. 
" Whatever in religion is holy and sublime, in 
virtue amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion 
or admiration in all the changes of that which is 
called fortune from without, or the wily subtleties 
and refluxes of man's thought from within ; " * — 
whatever is pitiful in the weakness, sublime in the 
strength, or terrible in the perversion of human 
intellect, these are the domain of Tragedy. Sibyl 
and Muse at once, she holds aloft the book of 
human fate, and is the interpreter of its mysteries. 
It is not, then, making a mock of the serious 
sorrows of real life, nor of those human beings 
who lived, suffered and acted upon this earth, to 
array them in her rich and stately robes, and pre- 
sent them before us as powers evoked from dust 
and darkness, to awaken the generous sympathies, 
the terror or the pity of mankind. It does not add 
to the pain, as far as tragedy is a source of emotion, 
that the wrongs and sufferings represented, the 
guilt of Lady Macbeth, the despair of Constance, 
the arts of Cleopatra, and the distresses of Kath- 
crine, had a real existence; but it adds infinitely to 
the moral effl'ct, as a subject of contemplation and 
a lesson of conduct, f 

♦Milton. 

t '' That the treachery of King John, the death of Arthur, and 



304 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

I shall be able to illustrate these observations 
more fully in the course of this section, in which 
we will consider those characters which are drawn 
from history ; and first, Cleopatra. 

Of all Shakspeare's female characters, Miranda 
and Cleopatra appear to me the most wonderful. 
The first, unequalled as a poetic conception ; the 
latter, miraculous as a work of art. If we could 
make a regular classification of his characters, 
these would form the two extremes of simplicity 
and complexity ; and all his other characters would 
be found to fill up some shade or gradation be- 
tween these two. 

Great crimes, springing from high passions, 
grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate source 
of tragic poetry. But to make the extreme of 
littleness produce an efiect like grandeur — to make 
the excess of frailty produce an efiect like power — 
to heap up together all that is most unsubstantial, 
frivolous, vain, contemptible, and variable, till the 
worthlessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense 
of the sublime spring from the very elements of 
littleness, — to do this, belonged only to Shakspeare 
that worker of miracles. Cleopatra is a brilliant 
antithesis, a compound of contradictions, of all that 

the grief of Constance, had a real truth hi history, sharpens the 
sense of pain, while it hangs a leaden weight on the heart and 
the imagination. Something whispers us that we have no right 
to make a mock of calamities like these, or to turn tlie truth of 
things into the puppet and plaj'thing of our fancies."— See 
Characters of Shakspeare's Plays.— To consider thus is not to 
consider too deeply, but not deeply enough. 



CLEOPATRA. 305 

we most hate, with what we most admire. The 
whole character is the triumph of the external over 
the innate ; and yet like one of her country's 
hieroglyphics, though she present at first view a 
splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep 
meaning and wondrous skill in the apparent 
enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it. 
But how are we to arrive at the solution of this 
glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continu- 
ally mocks and eludes us ? What is most astonish- 
ing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical 
construction — its consistent inconsistency , if I may 
use such an expression — which renders it quite- 
impossible to reduce it to any elementary prin- 
ciples. It will, perhaps, be found on the whole, 
that vanity and the love of power predominate ; 
but I dare not say it is so, for these qualities and a 
hundred others mingle into each other, and shift 
and change, and glance away, like the colors in a 
peacock's train. 

In some others of Shakspeare's female char- 
acters, also remarkable for their complexity, 
(Portia and Juliet, for instance,) we are struck 
with the delightful sense of harmony in the midst 
of contrast, so that the idea of unity and simplicity 
of effect is produced in the midst of variety ; but 
in Cleopatra it is the absence of unity and sim- 
plicity which strikes us ; the impression is that of 
perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. The con- 
tinual approximation of whatever is most opposite 
in character, in situation, in sentiment, would be 
20 



306 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

fatiguing, were it not so perfectly natural: the 
woman herself would be distracting, if she were 
not so enchanting. 

I have not the slightest doubt that Shakspeare's 
Cleopatra is the real historical Cleopatra — the 
" Rare Egyptian " — individualized and placed be- 
fore us. Her mental accomplishments, her une- 
qualled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles, 
her irresistible allurements, her starts of irregular 
grandeur, her bursts of ungovernable temper, her 
vivacity of ima.gination, her petulant caprice, her 
fickleness and her falsehood, her tenderness and 
her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her 
magnificent spirit, her royal pride, the gorgeous 
eastern coloring of the character ; all these con- 
tradictory elements has Shakspeare seized, mingled 
them in their extremes, and fused them into one 
brilliant impersonation of classical elegance, Orien- 
tal voluptuousness, and gipsy sorcery. 

What better proof can we have of the individual 
truth of the character than the admission that 
Shakspeare's Cleopatra produces exactly the same 
effect on us that is recorded of the real Cleopatra ? 
She dazzles our faculties, perplexes our judgment, 
bewilders and bewitches our fancy ; from the be- 
ginning to the end of the drama, we are conscious 
of a kind of fascination against which our moral 
sense rebels, but from which there is no escape. 
The epithets applied to her perpetually by Antony 
and others confirm this impression : " enchanting 
queen ! " — " witch " — " spell " — " great fairy " — 



CLEOPATRA. 307 

" cockatrice " — " serpent of old Nile " — " thou grave 
charm ! " * are only a few of them ; and who does 
not know by heart the famous quotations in which 
tliis Egyptian Circe is described with all her infi- 
nite seductions ? 

Fie ! wrangling queen ! 
Whom every thing becomes — to chide, to laugh, 
To weep ; whose every passion fully strives 
To make itself, in thee, fair and admired. 

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
Her infinite variety : — 

For vilest things 
Become themselves in her. 

And the pungent irony of Enobarbus has well ex- 
posed her feminine arts, when he says, on the occa- 
sion of Antony's intended departure, — 

Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies in- 
stantly : I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer 
moment. 

ANTONY. 

She is cunning past man's thought. 

ENOBARBUS. 

Alack, sir, no ! her passions are made of nothing but 
the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds 
and waters, sighs and tears ; they are greater storms and 
tempests than almanacs can report ; this cannot be cun- 

* Grave, in the sense of mighty or potent. 



308 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

ning in her ; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well 
as Jove. 

The whole secret of her absolute dominion over 
the facile Antony may be found in one little 
speech : — 

See where he is — who's with him — what he does — 
(1 did not send you,) If you find him sad, 
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report 
That I am sudden sick ! Quick ! and return. 

CHAKMIAN. 

Madam, methinks if you did love him dearly, 
You do not hold the method to enforce 
The hke from him. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What should I do, I do not? 

CHARMIAN. 

In each thing give him way ; cross him in nothing. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him. 

CHARMIAN. 

Tempt him not too far. 

But Cleopatra is a mistress of her art, and knows 
better : and what a picture of her triumphant pet- 
ulance, her imperious and imperial coquetry, is 
given in her own words ! 

That time— times ! 
I laugh'dhim out of patience; and that night 



CLEOPATRA. 309 

I laughed him into patience : and next mom, 
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed ; 
Then put my tires and mantles on, whilst 
I wore his sword, Philippan. 

When Antony enters full of some serious pur- 
pose which he is about to impart, the woman's per- 
verseness, and the tyrannical waywardness with 
which she taunts him and plays upon his temper, 
arc admirably depicted. 

I know, by that same eye, there's some good news. 
What says the married woman ? * You may go; 
Would she had never given you leave to come ! 
Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here ; 
1 have no power upon you ; hers you are. 

ANTONY. 

The gods best know 

CLEOPATRA. 

0, never was there queen 
So mightily betray' d ! Yet at the first, 
I saw the treasons planted. 

ANTONY. 

Cleopatra ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Why should I think you can be mine, and true. 
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, 
Who have been false to Fulvia ? Riotous madness, 
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows. 
Which break themselves in swearing ! 

* Fulvia, the first vrife of Antony. 



310 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

ANTONY. 

Most sweet queen ! ' 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going, 
But bid farewell, and go. 

She recovers lier dignity for a moment at the 
news of Fulvia's death, as if roused by a blow : — 



Though age from folly could not give me freedom, 
It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die ? 



And then follows the artful mockery with which 
she tempts and provokes him, in order to discover 
whether he regrets his wife. 

most false love ! 
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill 
With sorrowful water ? Now I see, I see 
In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd shall be. 

ANTONY. 

Quarrel no more; but be prepared to know 
The purposes I bear: which are, or cease. 
As you shall give th' advice. Now, by the fire 
That quickens Nilus' shrine, I go from hence 
Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war, 
As thou aflfectest. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Cut my lace, Charmian, come — 
But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well, 
So Antony loves. 



CLEOPATRA. 311 

AKTONY. 

My precious queen, forbear : 
And give true evidence to his love which stands 
An honorable trial. 

CLEOPATRA. 

So Fulvia told me. 
I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her: 
Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears 
Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene 
Of excellent dissembling; and let it look 
Like perfect honor. 

ANTONY. 

You'll "heat my blood — no more ! 

CLEOPATItA. 

You can do better yet ; but this is meetly. 

ANTONY. 

Now, by my sword — 

CLEOPATRA. 

And target — still he mends : 
But this is not the best. Look, pr'}i:hee, Charraian, 
How this Herculean Roman does become 
The carriage of his chafe ! 

This is, indeed, most " excellent dissembling ; " 
but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean 
Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that 
return of tenderness which secures the power she 
has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, 
the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell. 

Forgive me ! 
Since my becomings kill me when they do not 



312 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Eye well to you. Yotir honor calls you hence, 

Thei-efo-e be deaf to my unpitied folly, 

And all the gods go with you ! Upon your sword 

Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success 

Be strew'd before your feet! 

Finer still are the workiiifrs of her variable mind 
and lively imagination, after Antony's departure ; 
her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit, 
her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it 
were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her 
sceptre, that there should exist in her despite such 
things as space and time ; and high treason to her 
sovereign power, to dare to remember what she 
chooses to forget. 

Give me to drink mandragora, 

That I might sleep out this great gap of time 

My Antony is away. 

Charmian! 
Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits he, 
Or does he walk ? or is he on his horse V 
happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony ! 
Do bravely, horse ! for wot'st thou whom thou raov'st? 
The demi- Atlas of this earth — the arm 
And burgonet of men. He's speaking now. 
Or murmuiing, Where's my serpent of old Nile? 
For so he calls me. 

Met'st thou my posts ? 

ALEXAS. 

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers : 
Why do you send so thick ? 

CLEOPATRA. 

Who's born that day 



CLEOPATKA. 313 

When I forget to send to Antony, 
Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. 
Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, 
Ever love Cassar so ? 

CHARMIAN. 

that brave Caesar! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Be chok'd with such another emphasis ! 
Say, the brave Antony. 

CHARMIAN. 

The valiant Coesar ! ; 

CLEOPATRA. 

By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth, 
If thou with Caesar paragon again 
My man of men ! 

CHARMIAN. 

By your most gracious pardon, 
I sing but after you. 

CLEOPATRA. 

My salad days. 
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood. 
To say as I said then. But, come away — 
Get me some ink and paper: he shall have every day 
A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt. 

We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favorite 
amusement with Antony and Cleopatra to ramble 
through the streets at night, and bandy ribald 
jests with the populace of Alexandria. From the 
same authority, we know that they were accustomed 
to live on the most familiar te^ms with their attend- 



314 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

ants and the companions of their revels. To these 
traits we must add, that with all her violence, per- 
vcrseness, egotism, and caprice, Cleopatra mingled 
a capability for warm afFe(?tions and kindly feeling, 
or rather what we should call in these days, a con- 
stitutional good-nature ; and was lavishly generous 
to her favorites and dependents. These charac- 
teristics we find scattered through the play ; they 
are not only faithfully rendered by Shakspeare, 
but he has made the finest use of them in his de- 
lineation of manners. Hence the occasional free- 
dom of her women and her attendants, in the 
midst of their fears and flatteries, becomes most 
natural and consistent : hence, too, their devoted 
attachment and fidelity, proved even in death. 
But as illustrative of Cleopatra's disposition, per- 
haps the finest and most characteristic scene in the 
whole play, is that in which the messenger arrives 
from Rome with the tidings of Antony's marriage 
with Octavia. She perceives at once with quick- 
ness that all is not well, and she hastens to antici- 
pate the worst, that she may have the pleasure of 
being disappointed. Pier impatience to knoAv what 
she fears to learn, the vivacity with which she 
gradually works herself up into a state of excite- 
ment, and at length into fury, is wrought out with 
a force of truth which makes us recoil. 



CLEOPATRA. 

Antony's dead! 
If thou say so, villam, thou kill'st thy mistress. 



CLEOPATRA. 315 

But well and free, 

If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings 
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. 

MESSENGER. 

First, madam, he is well. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! we use 
To say, the dead are well : bring it to that, 
The gold I give thee wQl I melt, and pour 
Down thy ill-uttering throat. 

MESSENGER. 

Good madam, hear me. 



CLEOPATRA. 

Well, go to, I will. 
But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony 
Be free and healthful, why so tart a favor 
To trumpet such good tidings ? If not well, 
Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes. 

MESSENGER. 

Wil't please you hear me ? 

CLEOPATRA. 

I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st; 
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, 
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, 
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 
Rich pearls upon thee. 

MESSENGER. • 

Madam, he's well. 



316 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

CLEOPATRA. 

WeU said. 

, MESSENGKR. 

And friends with Caesar. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Thou art an honest man. 

MESSENGER. 

Ceesar and he are gi-eater friends than ever. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Make thee a fortune from me. 

MESSENGER. 

But yet, madam — 

CLEOPATRA. 

I do not like hut yet — it does allay 

The good preoedence. Fie upon but yet : 

But yet is as a gaoler to bring forth 

Some monstrous malefactor. Pr'ythee, friend, 

Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear, 

The good and bad together. He's friends with Cjssar 

In state of health, thou say'st; and thou say'st free. 

MESSENGER. 

Free, madam ! No : 1 made no such report, 
He's bound unto Octavia. 

CLEOPATRA. , 

For what good turn V 

• MESSENGER. 

Madamj he's married to Octavia. 



CLEOPATRA. 317 

CLEOPATRA. 

The most infectious pestilence upon thee ! 

[Strikes him dovm. 

MESSENGER. 

Good madam, patience. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What say you? [Strikes Mm again. 

Hence horrible villain ! or I'll spurn thine eyes 
Like balls before me — I'll unhair thine head — 
Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stewed in brine, 
Smarting in ling'ring pickle. 

MESSENGER. 

Gracious madam ! 
I, that do bring the news, made not the match. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee. 

And make thy fortunes proud : the blow thou hadst 

Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage ; 

And I will boot thee with what gift beside 

Thy modesty can beg. 

MESSENGER. 

He's married, madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Rogue, thou hast lived too long. [Draws a dagger. 

MESSENGER. 

Nay then I'll run. 

What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. 

[Exit, 

CIIARMTAN. 

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself; 
The man is mnocent, 



318 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt. 
Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures 
Turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again; 
Though I am mad, I will not bite him — Call ! 

CHARMIAN. 

He is afraid to come. 



CLEOPATRA. 

I will not hurt him. 
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike 
A meaner than myself. 

***** 



CLEOPATRA. 

In praising Antony I have dispraised Csesar. 

CHARMIAN. 

Many times, madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I am paid for't now — 
Lead me from hence. 

I faint. Iras, Charmian — 'tis no matter: 
Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him 
Report the features of Octavia, her years. 
Her inclination — let him not leave out 
The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly. 

[Exit Alex. 
Let him forever go — let him not — Charmian, 
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, 
T'other way he's a Mars. Bid you Alexas 

[7b Mardian. 
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, 
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. 



CLEOPATRA. 319 

I have given this scene entire because I know 
nothing comparable to it. The pride and arro- 
gance of the Egyptian queen, the blandishment of 
the woman, the unexpected but natural transitions 
of temper and feeling, the contest of various pas- 
sions, and at length — when the wild hurricane has 
spent its fury — the melting into tears, faintness, 
and languishment, are portrayed with the most 
astonishing power, and truth, and skill in feminine 
nature. More wonderful still is the splendor and 
force of coloring which is shed over this extraor- 
dinary scene. The mere idea of an angry woman 
beating her menial, presents something ridiculous 
or disgusting to the mind ; in a queen or a tragedy 
heroine it is still more indecorous ; * yet this scene 
is as far as possible from the vulgar or the comic. 
Cleopatra seems privileged to " touch the brink of 
all we hate " with impunity. This imperial terma- 
gant, this " wrangling queen, whom every thing 
becomes," becomes even her fury. We know not 
by what strange power it is, that in the midst of all 
these unruly passions and childish caprices, the 
poetry of the character, and the fanciful and spark- 
ling grace of the delineation are sustained and still 
rule in the imagination ; but we feel that it is so. 

I need hardly observe, that we have historical 
authority for the excessive violence of Cleopatra's 

* The \rell-known violence and coarseness of Queen Elizabeth's 
manners, in which she was imitated by the women about her, 
ni;iy in Shakspcare-s time have rendered the image of a royal 
virago less offensive and less extraordinary. 



- 320 HISTORICAL CHAlRACTERS. 

temper. Witness the story of her boxing the ears 
of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius, as related 
by Plutarch. Shakspeare has made a fine use of 
this anecdote also towards the conclusion of the 
drama, but it is not equal in power to this scene 
"with the messenger. 

The man is afterwards brought back, almost by- 
force, to satisfy Cleopatra's jealous anxiety, by a 
description of Octavia : — but this time, made wise 
by experience, he takes care to adapt his informa- 
tion to the humors of his imperious mistress, and 
gives her a satirical picture of her rival. The 
scene which follows, in which Cleopatra — artful, 
acute, and penetrating as she is — becomes the 
dupe of her feminine spite and jealousy, nay, 
assists in duping herself; and after having cuffed 
the messenger for telling her truths which are 
offensive, rewards him for the falsehood which flat- 
ters her weakness — is not only an admirable exhi- 
bition of character, but a fine moral lesson. 

She concludes, after dismissing the messenger 
with gold and thanks, 

I repent me much 
That I so harry' d him. Why, me thinks by him 
This creature' s no such thing ? 

CHARMIAN. 

nothing, madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

The man hath seen some majesty, and should know ! 
Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself up 



CLEOPATRA. 821 

with all the vain consciousness of rank and beauty 
as she pronounces this last line ? and is not this the 
very woman who celebrated her own apotheosis, — 
who arrayed herself in the robe and diadem of the 
goddess Isis, and could find no titles magnificent 
enough for her children but those of the Sun and 
the Moon ? 

The despotism and insolence of her temper are 
touched in some other places most admirably. 
Thus, when she is told that the Romans Ubel and 
abuse her, she exclaims, — 

Sink Eome, and their tongues rot 
That speak against us ! 

And when one of her attendants observes, that 
" Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but 
when she were well pleased," she immediately re- 
plies, " That Herod's head I'll have." * 

When Proculeius surprises her in her monu- 
ment, and snatches her poniard from her, terror, 
and fury, pride, passion, and disdain, swell in her 
haughty soul, and seem to shake her very being. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Where art thou, death ? 
Come hither, come! come, come and take a queen 
Worth many babes and beggars ! 

PROCULEIUS. 

temperance, lady? 

CLEOPATRA. 

Sir, I will eat no meat ; I'll not drink, sir : 

• She was as good as her word. See the life of Antony in Plu- 
tarch. 

21 



822 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

If iclle talk will once be necessary. 

I'll not sleep neither ; this mortal house I'll ruin, 

Do Csesar what he can ! Know, sir, that I 

Will not wait pinion'd at your mastei-'s court, 

Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye 

Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up, 

And show me to the shouting vai-letry 

Of censuring Rome ? Rather a ditch in Egypt 

Be gentle grave to me ! Rather on Nilus' mud 

Lay me stark naked, and k . the water-flies 

Blow me into abhorring! Rather make 

My country's high pp-amids my gibbet, 

And hang me up in chains ! 

In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finer 
still, and worked up with a truly Oriental exuber- 
ance of fancy and imagery, is her famous descrip- 
tion of Antony, addressed to Dolabella : — 

Most noble empress you have heard of me ? 

CLEOPATRA. 

I cannot tell. 

DOLABELLA. 

Assuredly, you know me. 

CLEOPATRA. 

No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. 

You laugh when boys, or women, tell their dreams; 

Is 't not your trick V 

DOLABELLA. 

I understand not, madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I dream' d there was an emperor Antony; 
such another sleep, that I might see 
But such another man ! 



CLEOPATRA. 323 

DOLABELLA. 

If it might please you 

CLEOPATRA. 

His face was as the heavens ; and therein stuck 

A sun and moon ; which kept their course, and lighted 

The little 0, the earth. 

DOLABELLA. 

Most sovereign creature 

CLEOPATRA. 

His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm 

Crested the world ; his voice was propertied 

As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends ; 

But when he meant to quail or shake the orb 

He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, 

There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas. 

That grew the more by reaping. His delights 

Were dolphin like; they show'd his back above 

The element they liv'd in. In his livery * 

Walk'd crowns and coronets; realms and islands were 

As plates f di'opp'd from his pocket. 

DOLABELLA 

Cleopatra ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Think you there was, or might be, such a man 
As this I dream'd of? 

DOLABELLA. 

Gentle madam, no. 

CLEOPATRA. 

You lie, — up to the hearing of the gods ! 

There was no room left in this amazing picture 
* i. e. retinue. t i- e. silver coins, from the Spanish jiZafa. 



824 HISTORI(?AL CHARACTERS. 

for the display of that passionate maternal tender- 
ness, which was a strong and redeeming feature in 
Cleopatra's historical character ; but it is not left 
untouched ; for when she is imprecating mischiefs 
on herself, she wishes, as the last and worst of pos- 
sible evils, that " thunder may smite Caesarion ! " 

In representing the mutual passion of Antony 
and Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakspeare has 
adhered to the truth of history as well as to gen- 
eral nature. On Antony's side it is a species of 
infatuation, a single and engrossing feeling : it is, 
in short, the love of a man declined in years for a 
woman very much younger than himself, and who 
has subjected him to every species of female en- 
chantment. In Cleopatra the passion is of a mixed \ 
nature, made up of real attachment, combined with ) 
the love of pleasure, the love of power, and the 
love of self. Not only is the character most com- 
plicated, but no one sentiment could have existed 
pure and unvarying in such a mind as hers ; her 
passion in itself is true, fixed to one centre ; but 
like the pennon streaming from the mast, it flutters 
and veers with every breath of her variable tem- 
per : yet in the midst of all her caprices, follies, 
and even vices, womanly feeling is still predomi- 
nant in Cleopatra : and the change which takes 
place in her deportment towards Antony, when 
their evil fortune darkens round them, is as beauti- 
ful and interesting in itself as it is striking and 
natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provok- 
ing petulance she displays in the first scenes, we 



CLEOPATRA. 825 

have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and 
fear, and submissive blandishment. Her behavior, 
for instance, after the battle of Actium, when she 
quails before the noble and tender rebuke of her 
lover, is partly female subtlety and partly natural 
feeling. 

CLEOPATRA. 

my lord, my lord, 
Forgive my fearful sails ! I little thought 
You would have follow' d. 

ANTOXY. 

Egypt, thou know'st too weU 
My heart was to the rudder tied by the strings, 
And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spirit 
Thy full supremacy thou know'st; and that 
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods 
Command me. 

CLEOPATRA. 

0, my pardon ? 

ANTONY. 

Now I must 
To the young man send humble treaties, dodge 
And palter in the shifts of lowness ; who 
With half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleas'd, 
^Making and man-ing fortunes. You did know 
How much you were my conqueror ; and that 
My sword, made weak by my affection, would 
Obey it ou all cause. 

CLEOPATRA. 

pardon, pardon! 

ANTONY. 

Fall not a tear, I say ; one of them rates 
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss ; 
Even this repays me. 



826 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

It Is perfectly in keeping with the individual 
character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of moral 
strength and physical courage, should cower terri- 
fied and subdued before the masculine spirit of her 
lover, when once she has fairly roused it. Thus 
Tasso's Armida, half siren, half sorceress, in the 
moment of strong feeling, forgets her incantations, 
and has recourse to persuasion, to prayers, and to 

tears. 

Lascia gl' incanti, e vnol provar se vaga 
E supplice belta sia miglior maga. 

Though the poet afterwards gives us to under- 
stand that even in this relinquishment of art there 
was a more refined artifice. 

Nella doglia amara 
Gia tutte non oblia 1' arti e le frodi. 

And something like this inspires the conduct of 
Cleopatra towards Antony in his fallen fortunes. 
The reader should refer to that fine scene, where 
Antony surprises Thyreus kissing her hand, " that 
kingly seal and plighter of high hearts," and rages 
like a thousand hurricanes. 

The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by 
Shakspeare, reminds me of the Farnese Hercules. 
There is an ostentatious display of power, an ex- 
aggerated grandeur, a colossal effect in the whole 
conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of 
the language, which seems, as it floAvs along, to re- 
sound with the clang of arms and the music of the 
revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic 
portrait are a little kept down; but Qverj word 



CLEOPATRA, 327 

which Antony utters is characteristic of the arro- 
gant but magnanimous Roman, who " with half the 
bulk o' the world played as he pleased," and was 
himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) pas- 
sions, and the slave of a woman. 

History is followed closely in all the details of 
the catastrophe, and there is something wonderfully 
grand in the hurried march of events towards the 
conclusion. As disasters hem her round, Cleopatra 
gathers up her faculties to meet them, not with the 
calm fortitude of a great soul, but the haughty, 
tameless spirit of a wilful woman, unused to reverse 
or contradiction. 

Her speech, after Antony has expired in her 
arms, I have always regarded as one of the most 
wonderful in Shakspeare. Cleopatra is not a wo- 
man to grieve silently. The contrast between the 
violence of her passions and the weakness of her 
sex, between her regal grandeur and her excess of 
misery, her impetuous, unavailing struggles with 
the fearful destiny which has compassed her, and 
the mixture of wild impatience and pathos in her 
agony, are really magnificent. She faints on the 
body of Antony, and is recalled to life by the 
cries of her women : — 

IRAS. 

Royal Egypt — empress ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nc more, but e'en a woman! * and commanded 

Cleopatra replies to the first word she hears on recovering her 
senses, " No more an empress, but a mere woman ! " 



328 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

By such poor passion as the maid that milks, 

And does the meanest chares. — It were for me 

To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods : 

To tell them that our world did equal theirs 

Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught; 

Patience is sottish, and impatience does 

Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin 

To rush into the secret house of death 

Ere death dare come to us ? How do you, women ? 

What, what ? good cheer ! why how now, Charmian ? 

My noble girls ! — ah, women, women ! look 

Our lamp is spent, is out. 

We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble, 

Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, 

And make death proud to take us. 

But although Cleopatra talks of dying " after the 
high Roman fashion," she fears what she most de- 
sires, and cannot perform with simplicity what 
costs her such an effort. That extreme physical 
cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her his- 
torical character, which led to the defeat of Ac- 
tium, which made her delay the execution of a 
fatal resolve, till she had " tried conclusions infinite 
of easy ways to die," Shakspeare has rendered 
with the finest possible effect, and in a manner 
which heightens instead of diminishing our respect 
and interest. Timid by nature, she is courageous 
by the mere force of will, and she lashes herself up 
with high-sounding words into a kind of false dar- 
ing. Her lively imagination suggests every incen- 
tive which can spur her on to the deed she has 
resolved, yet trembles to contemplate. She pic- 
tures to herself all the degradations which must 



CLEOPATRA. 329 

attend her captivity ; and let it be observed, that 
those which she anticipates are precisely such as a 
vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would espec- 
ially dread, and which only true virtue and mag- 
nanimity could despise. Cleopatra could have 
endured the loss of freedom ; but to be led in tri- 
umph through the streets of Rome is insufferable. 
She could stoop to Cffisar with dissembling courtesy, 
and meet duplicity with superior art ; but " to be 
chastised " by the scornful or upbraiding glance of 
the injured Octavia — " rather a ditch in Egypt!'* 

If knife, drugs, serpents, have 
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. 
Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes. 
And still conclusion,* shall acquu'e no honor 
Demurring upon me.' 

Now Iras, what think'st thou ? 
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown 
In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves, 
AVith greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall 
Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths, 
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, 
And forc'd to drink their vapor. 

IRAS. 

The gods forbid ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors 
Will catch at us like stioimpets ; and scald rhymers 
Ballad us out o' tune. The quick comedians 
Extemporally will stage us, and present 

• i. e. sedate determination. — Johnson. 



330 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Our Alexandrian revels. Antony 

Shall be brought drunken forth ; and I shall see 

Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness. 

She then calls for her diadem, her robes of state, 
and attires herself as if " again for Cydnus, to 
meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she 
must make Death proud to take her, and die, 
" phoenix like," as she liad lived, with all the pomp 
of preparation — ^luxurious in her despair. 

The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria, and 
others who died " after the high Roman fashion," 
is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue, 
and yet none of them so powerfully affect the im- 
agination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The 
idea of this frail, timid, wayward woman, dying 
with heroism from the mere force of passion and 
will, takes us by surprise. The Attic elegance of 
her mind, her poetical imagination, the pride of 
beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and 
the sumptuous and picturesque accompaniments 
with which she surrounds herself in death, carry to 
its extreme height that effect of contrast which 
prevails through her life and character. No arts, 
no invention could add to the real circumstances 
of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakspeare has 
shown profound judgment and feeling in adhering 
closely to the classical authorities ; and to say that 
the language and sentiments worthily fill up the 
outline, is the most magnificent praise that can be 
given. The magical play of fancy and the over- 
powering fascination of the character are kept up 



CLEOPATRA. 331 

to the last : and when Cleopatra, on applying the 
asp, silences the lamentations of her women : — 

Peace! peace! 
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 
That sucks the nurse to sleep ? — 

These few words — the contrast between the tender 
beauty of the image and the horror of the situa- 
tion — produce an effect more intensely mournful 
than all the ranting in the world. The generous 
devotion of her women adds the moral charm 
wliich alone was wanting: and when Octavius 
hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims, 
when gazing on her — 

She looks like sleep — 
As she woiald catch another Antony 
In her strong toil of gi-ace, 

the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts, 
triumphant even in death, is at once brought 
before us, and one masterly and comprehensive 
stroke consummates this most wonderful, most daz- 
zling delineation. 

I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's histor- 
ical character, nor of such women as resemble her : 
I am considering her merely as a dramatic portrait 
of astonishing beauty, spirit, and originality. She 
has furnished the subject of two Latin, sixteen 
French, six English, and at least four Italian trag- 
edies ; * yet Shakspeare alone has availed himself 

* The Cleopatra of Jodelle was the first regular French trag- 
edy : the last French tragedy on the same subject was the Cleo- 



832 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

of all the interest of the story, without falsifying 
the character. He alone has dared to exhibit the 
'Egyptian queen with all her greatness and all her 
littleness — all her frailties of temper — all her 
paltry arts and dissolute passions — yet preserved 
the dramatic propriety and poetical coloring of the 
character, and awakened our pity for fallen gran- 
deur, without once beguiling us into sympathy with 
guilt and error. Corneille has represented Cleo- 
patra as a model of chaste propriety, magnanimity, 
constancy, and every female virtue ; and the effect 
is almost ludicrous. In our own language, we have 
two very fine tragedies on the story of Cleopatra : 
in that of Dryden, which is in truth a noble poem, 
and which he himself considered his masterpiece, 
Cleopatra is a mere commonplace " all-for-love " 
heroine, full of constancy and fine sentiments. 
For instance : — 

My love's so true, 
That I can neither hide it where it is, 
Nor show it where it is npt. Nature meant me 
A wife — a silly, harmless, household dove. 
Fond without art, and kind without deceit. 
But fortune, that has made a mistress of me. 
Has thrust me out to the wild world, unfurnished 
Of falsehood to be happy. 

patre of Marmontel. For the representation of this tragedy, 
Vaucanson, the celebrated French mechanist, invented an au- 
tomaton asp, which crawled and hissed to the life, — to the great 
delight of the Parisians. But it appears that neither Vatican- 
sou's asp, nor Clairon, could save Cleopatre from a deserved fate. 
Of the English tragedies, one was written by the Countess of 
Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sydney; and is, I believe, the 
first instance in our language of original dramatic writing, by a 
female. 



CLEOPATRA. 833 

Is this Antony's Cleopatra — the Circe of the 
Nile — the 'Venus of the Cydnus? She never 
uttered any thing half so mawkish in her life. 

In Fletcher's " False One," Cleopatra is repre- 
sented at an earlier pez'iod of her histoiy : and to 
give an idea of the aspect under which the charac- 
ter is exhibited, (and it does not vary throughout 
the play,) I shall give one scene ; if it be consid- 
ered out of place, its extreme beauty wUl form its 
best apology. 

Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to 
Ceesar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so 
astonished and dazzled at the view of the accumu- 
lated wealth, that he forgets the presence of Cleo- 
patra, and treats her with negligence. The follow- 
ing scene between her and her sister Arsinoe occurs 
immediately afterwards. 

AESINOE. 

You're so impatient ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Have I not cause ? 
Women of common beauties and low births, 
Wlien they are slighted, are allowed their angers — 
Why should not I, a princess, make him know 
The baseness of his usage ? 

AKSIXOE. 

Yes, 'tis fit: 
But then again you know what man 

CLEOPATRA. 

He's no man! 



334 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

The shadow of a greatness hangs upon him, 

And not the virtue ; he is no conqueror, 

Has suffered under the base dross of nature ; 

Poorly deliver' d up his power to wealth. 

The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason: 

Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellion — 

Defied his holy flames. 

EROS. 

He will fall back again, 
And satisfy your grace. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Had I been old. 
Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'd 
Some shadow of dislike : but to prefer 
The lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe, 
And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewels 
Before the light of love, and soul of beauty — 
how it vexes me ! He is no soldier: 
All honorable soldiers are Love's servants. 
He is a merchant, a mere wandering merchant, 
Servile to gain ; he trades for poor commodities, 
And makes his conquests thefts ! Some fortunate cap- 
tains 
That quarter with him, and are truly valiant. 
Have flung the name of " Happy Caesar " on him; 
Himself ne'er won it. He's so base and covetous, 
He'll sell his sword for gold. 

ARSINOE. 

This is too bitter. 

CLEOPATRA. 

0, 1 could curse myself, that was so foolish. 

So fondly childish, to believe his tongue — 

His promising tongue — ere I could catch his temper. 



CLEOPATRA. 835 

I'd trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal, 

(His covetous eye'',) such as I scorn to tread on, 

Richer than e'er he saw yet, and moi-e tempting; 

Had I known he'd stoop'd at that, I'd saved mine honor— 

1 had been happy still ! But let him take it. 

And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded; 

Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies ; 

Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly. 

And when he finds scorn, ai-med at the strongest — 

I am a fool to fret thus for a fool, — 

An old blind fool too I I lose my health; I will not, 

I wiU not cry ; I will not honor him 

With tears diviner than the gods he worships ; 

I wiU not take the pains to curse a poor thing. 

EROS. 

Do not ; you shall not need. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Would I were prisoner 
To one I hate, that I might anger him ! 
I will love any man to break the heart of him ! 
Any that has the heart and will to kill him ! 

ARStNOE. 

Take some fair truce. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I will go study mischief, 
And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings. 
ShaU meet him like a basilisk, and strike him. 
Love ! put destroying flame into mine eyes. 
Into my smiles deceits, that I may torture him — 
That I may make him love to death, and laugh at hiral 
Enter Apollodorus. 

APOLLODORUS. 

Caesar commends his service to your grace. 



836 HISTOEICAL CHARACTElla. 

CLEOPATRA. 

His service ? What's his service '? 

EROS. 

Pray you be patient; 
The noble Caesar loves still. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What's his wiU? 

APOLLODORUS. 

He craves access unto your highness. 

CLEOPATRA. 

No;— 
Say no; I will have none to trouble me. 

ARSINOE. 

Good sister ! — 

CLEOPATRA. 

None, I say. 1 will be private. 
Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper, 
When first thou gav'st consent to bring my body 
To this unthankful Caesar ! 

APOLLODORUS. 

'Twas your will, madam. 
Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor' d you. 
You know what danger I endur'd. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Take this, (giving a Jewel,) 
And carry it to that lordly Cresar sent thee ; 
Therms a new love, a handsome one, a rich one, — 
One that will hug his mind: bid him make love to it: 

Tell the ambitious broker this will sufier 

Enter Caesar. 



CLEOPATRA. 337 

APOLLODORUS. 

He enters. 

CLEOPATRA. 

How! 

CESAR. 

I do not use to wait, lady ; 
Where I am, all the doors are free and open. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I guess so by your rudeness. 

C^SAR. 

You're not angry? 
Things of your tender mould should be most gentle. 
Why should you frown ? Good gods, what a set anger 
Have you forc'd into your face ! Come, I must temper 

you. 
What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful ! 
How like an ominous flash it broke out from you! 
Defend me, love! Sweet, who has anger'd you? 



CLEOPATRA. 

Show him a glass! That false face has betray' d me — 
That base heart wrong' d me! 

C^SAR. 

Be more sweetly angry. 
I wrong'd you, fair? 

CLEOPATRA. 

Away with your foul flatteries ; 
They are too gross ! But that I dare be angry, 
And with aa great a god as Caesar is. 
To show how poorly I respect his memory, 
I would not speak to you. 
22 



338 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

C^SAR. 
Pray you, undo this riddle, 
And tell me how I've vexed you. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Let me think first, 
Whether I may put on patience 
That will with honor siiffer me. Know I hate you ! 
Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you. 

C^.SAR. 

But do it mildly : in a noble lady, 
Softness of spirit, and a sober nature, 
That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows sweet- 
ness, 
Shows blessed, like herself. 

CLEOPATRA. 

And that great blessedness. 
You first reap'd of me; till you taught my nature, 
Like a rude storm, to talk aloud and thunder. 
Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller. 
You had the spring of my affections, 
And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of; 
You must expect the winter of mine anger. 
You flung me off — before the court disgraced me — 
When in the pride I appear' d of aU my beauty — 
Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyes 
The common strumpet, love of hated lucre, — 
Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature, — 
Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory, 
And minds adorned with noble love, would kick at ! 
Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase ; 
Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at. 
I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you, 
Called you dear Caesar, hung about you tenderly, 
Was proud to appear your friend — 



CLEOPATRA. 339 

CESAR. 

You have mistaken me. 

CLEOPATRA. 

But neither eye, nor favor, not a smile 

Was I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely; 

And as you had been sold to sordid infamy, 

You fell before the images of treasui'e, 

And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted, 

Forgotten, and contemned ; my soft embraces, 

And those sweet kisses which you called Elysium, 

As letters writ in sand, no moi'e remember'd; 

The name and glory of your Cleopatra 

Laugh' d at, and made a story to your captains I 

Shall I endure ? 

CESAR. 

You are deceived in all this ; 
Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tenderness. 



CLEOPATRA. 

No, no; I love not that way; you are cozen' d; 
I love with as much ambition as a conqueror, 
And where I love will triumph ! 

CiESAR. 

So you shall : 
My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear you : 
All I have won shall wait upon you. By the gods, 
The bravery of this woman's mind has fir*d me! 
Dear mistress, shall I but this once 

CLEOPATRA. 

How! Caesar! 
Have I let slip a second vanity 
That gives thee hope ? 



340 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

CiESAR. 

You shall be absolute, 
And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing. 

CLEOPATRA. 

***** 
Farewell, unthankful ! 

CAESAR. 

Stay! 

CLEOPATRA. 

I will not. 

CAESAR. 

I command. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Command, and go without, sir, 

I do command thee be ray slave forever, 

And vex, while I laugh at thee ! 

C^SAR. 

Thus low, beauty [lie hneels. 

CLEOPATRA. 

It is too late ; when I have found thee absolute, 

The man that fame reports thee, and to me. 

May be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror ! 

(Exii.) 

Now this is magnificent poetry, but this is not 
Cleopatra, this is not " the gipsey queen." The sen- 
timent here is too profound, the majesty too real, and 
too lofty. Cleopatra could be great by fits and starts, 
but never sustained her dignity upon so high a tone 
for ten minutes together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher 
reminds us of the antique colossal statue of her in 



OCTAVIA. 341 

the Vatican, all grandeur and grace. Cleopatra In 
Dry den's tragedy is like Guide's dying Cleopatra 
in the Pitti Palace, tenderly beautiful. Shaks- 
peare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and 
fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all 
anomalous shapes and impossible and wild com- 
binations of form are woven together in regular 
confusion and most harmonious discord : and such, 
we have reason to believe, was the living woman 
herself, when she existed upon this earth. 



OCTAVIA. 

I DO not understand the observation of a late 
critic, that in this play " Octavia is only a dull foil 
to Cleopatra." Cleopatra requires no foil, and 
Octavia is not dull, though in a moment of jealous 
spleen, her accomplished rival gives her that epi- 
thet.* It is possible that her beautiful character, if 
brought more forward and colored up to the his- 
toric portrait, woulQ still be eclipsed by the dazzling 
splendor of Cleopatra's ; for so I have seen a flight 
of fireworks blot out for a while the silver moon 
and ever-burning stars. But here the subject of 
the drama being the love of Antony and Cleo- 

* " The sober eye of dull Octavia."— Act v. scene 2. 



342 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

patra, Octavia is very properly kept in the back- 
ground, and far from any competition with her 
rival : the interest would otherwise have been 
unpleasantly divided, or rather Cleopatra herself 
must have served but as a foil to the tender, vir- 
tuous, dignified, and generous Octavia, the very 
beau ideal of a noble Roman lady : — 

Admired Octavia, whose beauty claims 
No worse a husband than the best of men; 
Whose virtues and whose general graces speak 
That which none else can utter. 

Dryden has committed a great mistake in bring- 
ing Octavia and her children on the scene, and in 
immediate contact with Cleopatra. To have thus 
violated the truth of history * might have been 
excusable, but to sacrifice the truth of nature and 
dramatic propriety, to produce a mere stage effect, 
was unpardonable. In order to preserve the unity 
of interest, he has falsified the character of Octavia 
as well as that of Cleopatra : f he has presented us 

* Octavia was never in Egypt. 

t " The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important person- 
age than in the Antony and Cleopatra of Shakspeare. She^ is, 
however, more cold and unamiable, for in the very short scenes 
in which the Octavia of Shakspeare is introduced, she is placed 
in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself 
informed us that he was apprehensive that the justice of a wife's 
claim would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their 
interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly to 
have studiously lowered the character of the injured Octavia, 
who, in her conduct to her husband, shows much duty and 
little love." Sir W. Scott (in the same fine piece of criticism 
prefixed to Dryden's All for Love) gives the preference to Shaks- 
pcare's Cleopatra 



OCTAVIA. 343 

with a regular scolding-match between the rivals, 
in which they come sweeping up to each other 
from opposite sides of the stage, with their respec- 
tive trains, like two pea-hens in a passion. Shak- 
speare would no more have brought his captivating, 
brilliant, but meretricious Cleopatra into immediate 
comparison with the noble and chaste simplicity of 
Octavia, than a connoisseur in art would have 
placed Canova's Dansatrice, beautiful as it is, 
beside the Athenian Melpomene, or the Vestal of 
the Capitol. 

The character of Octavia is merely indicated In 
a few touches, but every stroke tells. We see her 
with " downcast eyes sedate and sweet, and looks 
demure," — with her modest tenderness and digni- 
fied submission — the very antipodes of her rival! 
Nor should we forget that she has furnished one of 
the most graceful similes in the whole compass of 
poetiy, where her soft equanimity in the midst of 
grief is compared to 

The swan's down feather 
That stands upon the swell at flood of tide. 
And neither way inclines. 

The fear which seems to haunt the mind of 
Cleopatra, lest she should be "chastised by the 
sober eye" of Octavia, is exceedingly characteristic 
of the two women : it betrays the jealous pride of 
her, who was conscious that she. had forfeited all 
real claim to respect ; and it places Octavia before us 
in all the majesty of that virtue which could strike a 



344 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

kind of envying and remorseful awe even into tho 
bosom of Cleopatra. What would she have thought 
and felt, had some soothsayer foretold to her th© 
fate of her own children, whom she so tenderly 
loved ? Captives, and exposed to the rage of the 
Roman populace, they owed their existence to the 
generous, admirable Octavia, in whose mind there 
entered no particle of littleness. She received 
into her house the children of Antony and Cleo- 
patra, educated them with her own, treated them 
with truly maternal tenderness, and married them 
nobly. 

Lastly, to complete the contrast, the death of 
Octavia should be put in comparison with that of 
Cleopatra. 

After spending several years in dignified retire- 
ment, respected as the sister of Augustus, but more 
for her own virtues, Octavia lost her eldest son 
Marcellus, who was expressively called the " Hope 
of Rome." Her fortitude gave way under this 
blow, and she fell into a deep melancholy, which 
gradually wasted her health. While she was thus 
declining into death, occurred that beautiful scene, 
which has never yet, I believe, been made the 
subject of a picture, but should certainly be added 
to my gallery, (if I had one,) and I would hang it 
opposite to the dying Cleopatra. Virgil was com- 
manded by Augustus to read aloud to his sister, 
that book of the Eneid in which he had commemo- 
rated the virtues and early death of the young 
Marcellus. When he came to the lines — 



VOLUMNIA. 345 

This youth, the blissful vision of a day, 

Shall just be shown on earth, then snatch' d away, &c. 

the mother covered her face, and burst into tears. 
But when Virgil mentioned her son by name, 
(" Tu Marcellus eris,") which he had artfully de- 
ferred till the concluding lines, Octavia, unable to 
control her agitation, fainted away. She afterwards, 
with a magnificent spirit, ordered the poet a gra- 
tuity of ten thousand sesterces for each line of the 
panegyric* It is probable that the agitation she 
suffered on this occasion hastened the effects of her 
disorder; for she died soon after, (of grief, says 
the historian,) having survived Antony about 
twenty years. 



YOLUMNIA. 

Octavia, however, is only a beautiful sketch, 
while in Volumnia, Shakspeare has given us the 
portrait of a Roman matron, conceived in the true 
antique spirit, and finished in every part. Although 
Coriolanus is the hero of the play, yet much of the 
interest of the action and the final catastrophe 
turn upon the character of his mother, Volumnia, 
and the power she exercised over his mind, by 
which, according to the story, "she saved Rome 

* In all, about two thousand pounds. 



346 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

and lost her son." Her lofty patriotism, her patri- 
cian haughtiness, her maternal pride, her eloquence, 
and her towering spirit, are exhibited with the 
utmost power of effect ; yet the truth of female 
nature is beautifully preserved, and the portrait, 
with all its vigor, is without harshness. 

I shall begin by illustrating the relative position 
and feelings of the mother and son ; as these are 
of the greatest importance in the action of the 
drama, and consequently most prominent in the 
characters. Though Volumnia is a Roman matron, 
and though her country owes its salvation to her, 
it is clear that her maternal pride and affection are 
stronger even than her patriotism. Thus when 
her son is exiled, she burst into an imprecation 
against Rome and its citizens : — 

Now the red pestilence strikes all trades in Eome, 
And occupations perish ! 

Here we have the impulses of individual and 
feminine nature, overpowering all national and 
habitual influences. Volumnia would never have 
exclaimed hke the Spartan mother, of her dead 
son, " Sparta has many others as brave as he ; " 
but in a far different spirit she says to the Romans, — 

Ere you go, hear this ; 
As far as doth the Capitol exceed 
The meanest house in Rome, so far my son. 
Whom you have banished, does exceed you all. 

In the very first scene, and before the intro- 
duction of the principal personages, one citizen 



VOLUMNIA. 347 

observes to another that the military exploits of 
Marcius were performed, not so much for his 
country's sake " as to please his mother." By this 
admirable stroke of art, introduced with such sim- 
plicity of effect, our attention is aroused, and we 
are prepared in the very outset of the piece for 
the important part assigned to Yolumnia, and for 
her share in producing the catastrophe. 

In the first act we have a very graceful scene, 
in which the two Roman ladies, the wife and mother 
of Coriolanus, are discovered at their needle-work, 
conversing on his absence and danger, and are 
visited by Valeria : — 

The noble sisters of Publicola, 
The moon of Eome ; chaste as the icicle. 
That's curded by the frost from purest snow, 
And hangs on Dian's temple! 

Over this little scene Shakspeare, without any 
display of learning, has breathed the very spirit 
of classical antiquity. The haughty temper of 
Volumnia, her admiration of the valor and high 
bearing of her son, and her proud but unselfish 
love for him, are finely contrasted with the modest 
sweetness, he conjugal tenderness, and the fond 
solicitude of his wife Virgilia. 

VOLUMNIA. 

When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son 
of my womb ; when youth with comeliness pkick'd all 
gaze his way; when, for a day of king's entreaties, a 
mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; 
I, — considering how honor would become such a person ; 



348 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the 
wall, if renown made it not stir, — was pleased to let him 
seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel 
war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound 
with oak. 1 tell thee, daughter — 1 sprang not more in joy 
at first hearing he was a man-child, than now in first see- 
ing he had proved himself a man. 

YIRGILIA. 

But had he died in the business, madam? how then? 

VOLUMNIA. 

Then his good report should have been my son ; I therein 
would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely : had 
I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear 
than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven dio 
nobly for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit out 
of action. 

Enter a Gentlewojian. 

Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you. 

VIRGILIA. 

Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself. 

VOLUMNIA. 

Indeed you shall not. 

Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum: 

See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair : 

As children from a bear, the Voices shunning him; 

Methinks I see him stamp thus, and caU thus — 

" Come on, you cowards ! you were got in fear, 

Though you wei-e born in Kome." His bloody brow 

With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes; 

Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow 

Or all, or lose his hire. 

VIRGILIA. 

His bloody brow ! Jupiter, no blood I 



VOLUMNIA. 349 

VOLUMNIA. 

Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man 

Than gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba, 

When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier 

Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood 

At Grecian swords contending. Tell Valeria 

We are fit to bid her welcome. [£xit Gent. 

VIRGILTA. 

Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius ! 

VOLUMNIA. 

He'U beat Aufidius's head below his knee. 
And tread upon his neck. 

This distinction between the two females is as 
interesting and beautiful as it is well sustained. 
Thus when the victory of Coriolanus is proclaimed, 
Menenius asks, " Is he wounded ? " 

VIRGILIA. 

no, no, no ! 

VOLUMNIA. 

Yes, he is wounded — I thank the gods for it ! 

And when lie returns victorious from the wars, liis 
high-spirited mother receives him with blessings 
and applause — his gentle wife with " gracious 
silence " and with tears. 

The resemblance of temper in the mother and 
the son, modified as it is by the difference of sex, 
and by her greater age and experience, is exhibited 
with admirable truth. Volumnia, with all her pride 
and spirit, has some prudence and self-command ; 
in her language and deportment all is matured and 



350 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

matronly. The dignified tone of authority she 
assumes towards her son, when checking his head- 
long impetuosity, her respect and admiration for 
his noble qualities, and her strong sympathy even 
with the feelings she combats, are all displayed in 
the scene in which she prevails on him to soothe 
the incensed plebeians. 

VOLUMNIA. 

Pray be counsell'd: 
I have a heart as little apt as yours. 
But yet a brain that leads my use of anger 
To better vantage. 

MENENIUS. 

Well said, noble woman : 
Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that 
The violent fit o' the time craves it as physic 
For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, 
Which I can scarcely bear. 

COEIOLANUS. 

What must I do? 

MENENIUS. 

Keturn to the tribunes. 

COEIOLANUS. 

WeU. 
What then? what then? 

MENENIUS. 

Repent what you have spoke. 

CORIOLANUS. 

For them ? I cannot do it to the gods : 
Must I then do't to them? 



VOLUMNIA. 351 

VOLUMNIA. 

You are too absolute; 
Though therein you can never be too noble, 
But when extremities speak. 

I pr'ythee now, my son, 
Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand ; 
And thus far having stretch'd it, (here be Avith them,) 
Thy knee bussing the stones, (for in such business 
Action is eloquent, and the eyes of the ignorant 
More leai-ned than the ears,) waving thy head, 
Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart. 
Now humble, as the ripest mulberry, 
That will not hold the handling. Or, say to them, 
Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils 
Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, 
Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim. 
In asking their good loves ; but thou wilt frame 
Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far 
As thou hast power and person. 

MEXEXIUS. 

This but done. 
Even as she speaks, why all their hearts were yours ; 
For they have pardons, being asked, as free 
As words to little purpose. 

VOLUMNIA. 

Pr'ythee now. 
Go, and be rul'd: although I know thou hadst rather 
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf 
Than flatter him in a bower. 

MENENIUS. 

Only fair speech. 

COMINIUS. 

I think 'twill serve, if he 
Can thereto frame his spirit. 



352 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

VOLUMKIA. 

He must, and will : 
Pr'ythee, now say you will, and go about it. 

CORIOLANUS. 

Must I go show tliem my unbarb'd sconce ? Must I 
With my base tongue give to my noble heart 
A lie, that it must bear? Well, I will do't; 
Yet were there but this single plot to lose, 
This mould of Marcius, they to dust should gi-ind it, 
And throw it against the wind. To the market-place ! 
You have put me now to such a part, which never 
I shall discharge to the life. 

VOLUMNIA. 

I pr'ythee now, sweet son, as thou hast said, 
My praises made thee first a soldier, so 
To have my praise for this, perform a part 
Thou hast not done before. 

CORIOLAXUS. 

Well, I must do't: 
Away, my disposition, and possess me 
Some harlot's spirit! 

***** 
I will not do't: 
Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth, 
And by my body's action, teach my mind 
A most inherent baseness. 

VOLUM^^A. 

At thy choice, then: 
To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor. 
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let 
Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear 
Thy dangerous stoutness : for I mock at death 
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list — 



VOLUMNIA. 353 

Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me; 
But owe tby pride thyself. 

CORIOLANUS. 

Pray be content ; 
I^Iothcr, I am going to the mai'ket place — 
Chide me no more. 

When the spirit of the mother and the son are 
brought into immediate collision, he yields before 
her; the Avarrior who stemmed alone the whole 
city of Corioli, who was ready to face " the steep 
Tarpeian death, or at wild horses' heels, — vagabond 
exile — flaying," rather than abate one jot of his 
proud will — shrinks at her rebuke. The haughty, 
fiery, overbearing temperament of Coriolanus, is 
drawn in such forcible and striking colors, that 
not! ling can more impress us with the real grandeui 
and power of Volumnla's character, tlian his bound- 
less submission to her will — his more than filial 
tenderness and respect. 

You gods ! I prate, 
And the most noble mother of the world 
Leave unsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth — 
Of thy deep duty more impression show 
Than that of common sous ! 

When his mother appears before him as a sup- 
pliant, he exclaims, — 

My mother bows ; 

As if Olympus to a molehill should 

In supplication nod. 

23 



854 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Here the expression of reverence, and tlie magnif- 
icent image in which it is clothed, are equally 
characteristic both of the mother and the son. 

Her aristocratic haughtiness is a strong trait in 
Yolumnia's manner and character, and her supreme 
contempt for the plebeians, whether they are to be 
defied or cajoled, is very like what I have heard 
expressed by some high-born and high-bred women 
of our own day. 

I muse my mother 
Does not approve me further, who was wont 
To call them woollen vassals ; things created 
To buy aud sell with gi'oats ; to show bare heads 
In congregations ; to yawn, be still, and wonder 
When one but of my ordinance stood up 
To speak of peace or war. 

And Volumnia reproaching the tribunes, — 

'Twas you incensed the rabble — 
Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth, 
As I can of those mysteries which Heaven 
Will not have earth to know. 

There is all the Roman spirit in her exultation 
when the trumpets sound the return of Coriolanus. 

Hark ! the trumpets ! 
These are the ushers of Marcius : before him 
He carries noise, aud behind him he leaves tears. 

And in her speech to the gentle Virgilia, who is 
weeping her husband's banishment — 

Leave this faint puling ! and lament as I do, 
In anger — Juno-like ! 



VOLUMJflA. 855 

But the triumph of Volumnia's character, the full 
display of all her grandeur of soul, her patriotism, 
her strong affections, and her sublime eloquence, 
are reserved for her last scene, in which she pleads 
for the safety of Rome, and wins from her angry 
son that peace which all the swords of Italy and 
her confederate arms could not have purchased. 
The strict and even literal adherence to the truth 
of history is an additional beauty. 

Her famous speech, beginning " Should we be 
silent and not speak," is nearly word for word from 
Plutarch, with some additional graces of expression, 
and the charm of metre superadded. I shall give 
the last lines of this address, as illustrating that 
noble and irresistible eloquence which was the 
crowning ornament of the character. One ex- 
quisite touch of nature, which is distinguished by 
italics, was beyond the rhetorician and historian, 
and belongs only to the poet. 

Speak to me, son ; 
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor, 
To imitate the graces of the gods ; 
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air. 
And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt 
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak ? 
Think' st thou it honorable for a nobleman 
Still to remember wrongs? Daughtei", speak you: 
He cares not for yoxu* weeping. Speak thou, boy; 
Perhaps thy childishness may move him move 
Than can our reasons. There is no man in the Avorld 
Llore bound to his mother; yet here he lets me prate 
Like one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life 
Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy; 



356 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

WJien she, (poor hen .') fond of no second brood, 
Has duch^d thee to Oie tvars, and safely home, 
Laden with honor. Say my request's unjust, 
And spurn me back: but, if it be not so, 
Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee 
That thou restrain'st from me the duty which 
To a mother's part belongs. He turns away: 
Down, ladies : let us shame him with our knees. 
To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride, 
Than pity to our prayers ; down, and end ; 
This is the last ; so will we home to Eome, 
And die among our neighbors. Nay, behold us ; 
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have, 
But kneels, and holds iip hands, for fellowship, 
Does reason our petition with more strength 
Than thou hast to deny't.* 



* The corresponding passage in the old English Plutarch runs 
thus: "My son, why dost thou not answer me? Dost thou 
think it good altogether to give place unto thy choler and re- 
venge, and thihkest thou it not honesty for thee to grant thy 
mother's request in so weighty a cause? Dost thou take it 
honorable for a nobleman to remember the wrongs and injuries 
done him, and dost not in like case think it an honest noble- 
man's part to be thankful for the goodness that parents do show 
to their children, acknowledging the duty and reverence they 
ought to bear unto them? No man living is more bound to 
show himself thankful in all parts and respects than thyself, who 
so universally showest all ingratitude. Moreover, my son, thou 
hast sorely taken of thy country, exacting grievous payments 
upon them in revenge of the injuries offered thee; besides, thou 
hast not hitherto showed thy poor mother any courtesy. And, 
therefore, it is not only honest, but due unto me, that without 
compulsion I should obtain my so just and reasonable request 
of thee. But since by reason I cannot persuade ye to it, to what 
purpose do I defer my last hope? " And with theee words, her- 
self, his wife, and childi-en, feU down upon their knees before 
him. 



CONSTANCE. 857 

It is an instance of Shakspcare's fine judgment, 
that after this magnificent and touching piece of 
eloquence, which saved Rome, Vohunuia should 
speak no more, for she could say nothing that 
would not deteriorate from the effect thus left on 
the imagination. She is at last dismissed from our 
admiring gaze amid the thunder of grateful accla- 
mations — 

Behold, our patroness, — the life of Rome. 



CONSTANCE. 

We have seen that in the mother of Coriolanus, 
the principal qualities are exceeding pride, self- 
will, strong maternal affection, great power of 
imagination, and energy of temper. Precisely the 
same qualities enter into the mind of Constance of 
Bretagne : but in her these qualities are so dif- 
ferently modified by circumstances and education, 
that not even in fancy do we think of instituting a 
comparison between the Gothic grandeur of Con- 
stance, and the more severe and classical dignity 
of the Roman matron. 

The scenes and circumstances with which Shak- 
speare has surrounded Constance, are strictly faith- 
ful to the old chronicles, and are as vividly as they 
are accurately represented. On the other hand, 
the hints on which the character has been con- 



858 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

structed, are few and vague ; but the portrait 
harmonizes so wonderfully with its historic back- 
ground, and with all that later researches have dis- 
covered relative to the personal adventures of 
Constance, that I have not the slightest doubt of 
its individual truth. The result of a life of strange 
vicissitude ; the picture of a tameless will, and high 
passions, forever struggling in vain against a supe- 
rior power : and the real situation of women in 
those chivalrous times, are placed before us in a 
few noble scenes. The manner in which Shak- 
speare has applied the scattered hints of history to 
the formation of the character, reminds us of that 
magician who collected the mangled hmbs which 
had been dispersed up and down, reunited them 
into the human form, and reanimated them with 
the breathing and conscious spirit of life. 

Constance of Bretagne was the only daughter 
and heiress of Conan IV., Duke of Bretagne ; her 
mother was Margaret of Scotland, the eldest 
daughter of Malcolm IV. : but little mention is 
made of this princess in the old histories ; but she 
appears to have inherited some portion of the talent 
and spirit of her father, and to have transmitted 
them to her daughter. The misfortunes of Con- 
stance may be said to have commenced before her 
birth, and took their rise in the misconduct of one 
of her female ancestors. Her great-grandmother 
Matilda, the wife of Conan III., was distinguished 
by her beauty and imperious temper, and not less 
by her gallantries. Her husband, not thinking 



CONSTANCE. 359 

proper to repudiate her during his lifetime, con- 
tented himself with disinheriting her son Hoel, 
whom he declared illegitimate ; and bequeathed his 
dukedom to his daughter Bertha, and her husband 
Allan the Black, Earl of Richmond, who were pro- 
claimed and acknowledged Duke and Duchess of 
Bretagne. 

Prince Hoel, so far from acquiescing in his 
father's will, immediately levied an army to main- 
tain his rights, and a civil war ensued between the 
brother and sister, which lasted for twelve or four- 
teen years. Bertha, whose reputation was not 
much fairer than that of her mother Matilda, was 
succeeded by her son Conan IV. ; he was young, 
and of a feeble, vacillating temper, and after strug- 
gling for a few years against the increasing power 
of his uncle Hoel, and his own rebellious barons, 
he called in the aid of that politic and ambitious 
monarch, Henry II. of England. This fatal step 
decided the fate of his crown and his posterity ; 
from the moment the English set foot in Bretagne, 
that misei'able country became a scene of horrors 
and crimes — oppression and perfidy on the one 
hand, unavailing struggles on the other. Ten 
years of civil discord ensued, during which the 
greatest part of Bretagne was desolated, and nearly 
a third of the population carried off by famine and 
pestilence. In the end, Conan was secured in the 
possession of his throne by the assistance of the 
English king, who, equally subtle and ambitious, 
contrived in the course of this warfare to strip 



860 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Conan of most of his provinces by successive 
treaties; alienate the Breton nobles from their 
lawful sovereign, and at length render the Duke 
himself the mere vassal of his power. 

In the midst of these scenes of turbulence and 
bloodshed was Constance born, in the year 1164. 
The English king consummated his perfidious 
scheme of policy, by seizing on the person of the 
infant princess, before she was three years old, as 
a hostage for her father. Afterwards, by contract- 
ing- her in marriage to his third son, Geoffrey 
Plantagenet, he ensured, as he thought, the posses- 
sion of the duchy of Bretagne to his own posterity. 

From this time we hear no more of the weak, 
unhappy Conan, who, retiring from a fruitless con- 
test, hid himself in some obscure retreat : even the 
date of his death is unknown. Meanwhile Henry 
openly claimed the duchy in behalf of his son 
GeoiTrey and the Lady Constance ; and their 
claims not being immediately acknowledged, he 
invaded Bretagne with a large army, laid waste 
the country, bribed or forced some of the barons 
into submission, murdered or imprisoned others, 
and, by the most treacherous and barbarous policy, 
contrived to keep possession of the country he had 
thus seized. However, in order to satisfy the 
Bretons, who were attached to the race of their 
ancient sovereigns, and to give some color to his 
usurpation, he caused Geoffrey and Constance to 
be solemnly crowned at Rennes, as Duke and 
Duchess of Bretagne. This was in the year 1169, 



CONSTANCE. 861 

■when Constance was five, and Prince Geoffrey 
about eight, years old. His father, Henry, con- 
tinued to rule, or rather to ravage and oppress, the 
country in their name for about fourteen years, 
during which period we do not hear of Constance. 
She appears to have been kept in a species of con- 
straint as a hostage rather than a sovereign ; while 
her husband Geoffrey, as he grew up to manhood, 
was too much engaged in keeping the Bretons in 
order, and disputing his rights with his father, to 
think about the completion of his union with Con- 
stance, although his sole title to the dukedom was 
properly and legally in right of his wife. At 
length, in 1182, the nuptials were formally cele- 
brated, Constance being then in her nineteenth 
year. At the same time, she was recognized as 
Duchess of Bretagne de son clief^ (that is, in her 
own right,) by two acts of legislation, which are 
still preserved among the records of Bretagne, and 
bear her own seal and signature. 

Those domestic feuds which embittered the 
whole life of Henry H., and at length broke his 
heart, are well known. Of all his sons, who were 
in continual rebellion against him, Geoffrey was 
the most undutiful, and the most formidable : he 
had all the pride of the Plantagenets, — all the war- 
like accomplishments of his two elder brothers, 
Henry and Richard ; and was the only one who 
could compete with his father in talent, eloquence, 
and dissimulation. No sooner was he the husband 
of Constance, and in possession of the throne of 



862 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Bretagne, than he openly opposed his father ; in 
other words, he maintained the honor and interests 
of his wife and her unhappy country against the 
cruelties and oppression of the English plunderers.* 
About three years after his maiTiage, he was in- 
vited to Paris for the purpose of concluding a 
league, offensive and defensive, with the French 
king : in this journey he was accompanied by the 
Duchess Constance, and they were received and 
entertained with royal magnificence. Geoffrey, 
who excelled in all chivalrous accomplishments, 
distinguished himself in the tournaments which 
were celebrated on the occasion ; but unfortunately, 
after an encounter with a French knight, cele- 
brated for his prowess, he was accidentally flung 
from his horse, and trampled to death in the lists 
before he could be extricated. 

Constance, being now left a widow, returned to 
Bretagne, where her barons rallied round her, and 
acknowledged her as their sovereign. The Salique 
law did not prevail in Bretagne, and it appears that 
in those times the power of a female to possess and 
transmit the rights of sovereignty had been recog- 
nized in several instances ; but Constance is the 
first woman who exercised those rights in her own 
person. She had one daughter, Elinor, born in 
the second year of her marriage, and a few months 
after her husband's death she gave birth to a son. 
The States of Bretagne were filled with exultation ; 
they required that the infant prince should not bear 
* Vide Daru, Histoire de Bretagne. 



CONSTAXCE. 863 

the name of his father, — a name which Constance, 
in fond remembrance of her husband, would have 
bestowed on him — still less that of his grandfather 
Henry ; but that of Arthur, the redoubted hero of 
their country, whose memory was worshipped by 
the populace. Though the Arthur of romantic 
and fairy legends — the Arthur of the round table, 
had been dead for six centuries, they still looked 
for his second appearance among them, according 
to the prophecy of Merlin ; and now, with fond 
and short-sighted enthusiasm, fixed their hopes on 
the young Arthur as one destined to redeem the 
glory and independence of their oppressed and 
miserable country. But in the very midst of the 
rejoicings which succeeded the birth of the prince, 
his grandfather, Henry II., demanded to have the 
possession and guardianship of his person ; and on 
the spirited refusal of Constance to yield her son 
into his power, he invaded Bretagne with a large 
army, plundering, burning, devastating the country 
as he advanced. He seized Rennes, the capital, and 
having by the basest treachery obtained possession 
of the persons both of the young duchess and her 
children, he married Constance forcibly to one of 
his own favorite adherents, Randal de Blondeville, 
Earl of Chester, and conferred on him the duchy 
of Bretagne, to be held as a fief of the English 
crown. 

The Earl of Chester, though a brave knight, 
and one of the greatest barons of England, had no 
pretensions to so high an alliance ; nor did he pos- 



864 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

sess any qualities or personal accomplisLments 
■which might have reconciled Constance to him as 
a husband. He was a man of diminutive stature 
and mean appearance, but of haughty and fero- 
cious manners, and unbounded ambition.* In a 
conference between this Earl of Chester and the 
Earl of Perche, in Lincoln cathedral, the latter 
taunted Randal with his insignificant person, and 
called him contemptuously '•'■Dwarf" " Sayst thou 
so ! " replied Randal ; " I vow to God and our 
Lady, whose church this is, that ere long I will 
seem to thee high as that steeple ! " He was as 
good as his word, when, on ascending the throne 
of Brittany, the Earl of Perche became his vassal. 
We cannot know what measures were used to 
force this degradation on the reluctant and high- 
spirited Constance ; it is only certain that she never 
considered her marriage in the light of a sacred ob- 
ligation, and that she took the first opportunity of 
legally breaking from a chain which could scarcely 
be considered as legally binding. For about a year 
she was obliged to allow this detested husband the 
title of Duke of Bretagne, and he administered the 
government without the slightest reference to her 
will, even inform, till 1189, when Henry H. died, 
execrating himself and his undutiful children. 
Whatever great and good qualities this monarch 
may have possessed, his conduct in Bretagne was 
uniformly detestable. Even the unfilial behavior 
of his sons may be extenuated ; for while he spent 
* Vide Sir Peter Leycester's Antiquities of Chester. 



CONSTANCE. 365 

his life, and sacrificed his peace, and violated every 
principle of honor and humanity to compass their 
political aggrandizement, he was guilty of atrocious 
injustice towards them, and set them a bad exam- 
ple in his own person. 

The tidings of Henry's death had no sooner 
reached Bretagne than the barons of that country 
rose with one accord against his government, ban- 
ished or massacred his officers, and, sanctioned by 
the Duchess Constance, drove Randal de Blonde- 
ville and his followers from Bretagne ; he retired 
to his earldom of Chester, there to brood over his 
injuries, and meditate vengeance. 

In the mean time, Richard I. ascended the Eng- 
lish throne. Soon afterwards he embarked on his 
celebrated expedition to the Holy Land, having 
previously declared Prince Arthur, the only son of 
Constance, heir to all his dominions.* 

His absence, and that of many of her own tur- 
bulent barons and encroaching neighbors, left to 
Constance and her harassed dominions a short 
interval of profound peace. The historians of that 
period, occupied by the warlike exploits of the 
French and English kings in Palestine, make but 
little mention of the domestic events of Europe dur- 
ing their absence ; but it is no slight encomium on 
the character of Constance, that Bretagne flour- 
ished under her government, and began to recover 
from the effects of twenty years of desolating war. 
The seven years during which she ruled as au 
* By tho treaty of Messina, 1190. 



366 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

independent sovereign, were not marked by any 
events of importance; but in the year 1196 she 
caused her son Arthur, then nine years of age, to 
be acknowledged Duke of Bretagne by the States, 
and associated him with herself in all the acts of 
government. 

There was more of maternal fondness than policy 
in this measure, and it cost her dear. Richard, 
that royal firebrand, had now returned to England : 
by the intrigues and representations of Earl Ran- 
dal, his attention was turned to Bretagne. He 
expressed extreme indignation that Constance 
should have proclaimed her son Duke of Bretagne, 
and her partner in power, without his consent, he 
being the feudal lord and natural guardian of the 
young prince. After some excuses and represent- 
ations on the part of Constance, he affected to be 
pacified, and a friendly interview was appointed at 
Pontorson, on the frontiers of Normandy. 

We can hardly reconcile the cruel and perfidious 
scenes which follow with those romantic and chiv- 
alrous associations which illustrate the memory of 
Coeur-de-Lion — the friend of Blondel, and the an- 
tagonist of Saladln. Constance, perfectly unsus- 
picious of the meditated treason, accepted the 
invitation of her brother-in-law, and set out from 
Rennes with a small but magnificent retinue to join 
him at Pontorson. On the road, and within sight 
of the town, the Earl of Chester was posted with a 
troop of Richard's soldiery, and while the Duchess 
prepared to enter the gates, where she expected to 



CONSTANCE. 367 

be received with honor and welcome, he suddenly 
rushed from his ambuscade, fell upon her and her 
suite, put the latter to flight, and carried off Con- 
stance to the strong- Castle of St. Jaques de Beuv- 
ron, Avhere he detained her a prisoner for eighteen 
months. The chronicle does not tell us how Kan- 
dal treated his unfortunate wife during this long 
imprisonment. She was absolutely in his power ; 
none of her own people were suffered to approach 
her, and -whatever might have been his behavior 
towards her, one thing alone is certain, that so far 
from softening her feelings towards him^ it seems to 
have added tenfold bitterness to her abhorrence 
and her scorn. 

The barons of Bretagne sent the Bishop of 
Rennes to complain of this violation of faith and 
justice,, and to demand the restitution of the 
Duchess. Richard meanly evaded and tempor- 
ized : he engaged to restore Constance to liberty 
on certain conditions; but this was merely to gain 
time. "When the stipulated terms were complied 
with, and the hostages delivered, the Bretons sent 
a herald to the English king, to require him to 
fulfil his part of the treaty, and restore their be- 
loved Constance. Richard replied with insolent 
defiance, refused to deliver up either the hostages 
or Constance, and marched his army into the heart 
of the country. 

All that Bretagne had suffered previously was as 
nothing compared to this terrible invasion ; and all 
that the humane and peaceful government of Con- 



868 HISTOKICAL CHARACTERS. 

stance had effected during seven years was at once 
annihilated. The English barons and their savage 
and mercenary followers spread themselves through 
the country, which they wasted with fire and 
sword. The castles of those who ventured to de- 
fend themselves were razed to the ground ; the 
towns and villages plundered and burnt, and the 
wretched inhabitants fled to the caves and forests ; 
but not even there could they find an asylum ; by 
the orders, and in the presence of Richard, the 
woods were set on fire, and hundreds either per- 
ished in the flames, or were suffocated in the 
smoke. 

Constance, meanwhile, could only weep in her 
captivity over the miseries of her country, and 
tremble with all a mother's fears for the safety of 
her son. She had placed Arthur under the care 
of William Desroches, the seneschal of her palace, 
a man of mature age, of approved valor, and devot- 
edly attached to her family. This faithful servant 
threw himself, with his young charge, into the for- 
tress of Brest, where he for some time defied the 
power of the English king. 

But notwithstanding the brave resistance of the 
nobles and people of Bretagne, they were obliged 
to submit to the conditions imposed by Richard. 
By a treaty concluded in 1198, of which the terms 
are not exactly known, Constance was delivered 
from her captivity, though not from her husband ; 
but in the following year, when the death of Rich- 
ard had restored her to some degree of indepen- 



I 



CONSTANCE. 369 

dencc, tlic first use she made of it was to divorce 
herself from Randal. She took this step with her 
usual precipitancy, not waiting for the sanction of 
the Pope, as was the custom in those days ; and 
soon afterwards she gave her hand to Guy, Count 
de Thouars, a man of courage and integrity, who 
for some time maintained the cause of his wife and 
her son against the power of England. Arthur 
was now fourteen, and the legitimate heir of all 
the dominions of his uncle Kichard. Constance 
placed him under the guardianship of the king of 
France, who knighted the young prince with his 
own hand, and solemnly swore to defend his rights 
against his usurping uncle John. 

It is at this moment that the play of King John 
opens ; and history is followed as closely as the 
dramatic form would allow, to the death of John. 
The real fate of poor Arthur, after he had been 
abandoned by the French, and had fallen into the 
hands of his uncle, is now ascertained ; but accord- 
ing to the chronicle from which Shakspeare drew 
his materials, he was killed in attempting to escape 
from the castle of Falaise. Constance did not live 
to witness this consummation of her calamities ; 
within a few months after Arthur was taken pris- 
oner, in 1201, she died suddenly, before she had 
attained her thirty-ninth year; but the cause of her 
death is not specified. 

Her eldest daughter Elinor, the legitimate heiress 
of England, N"ormandy, and Bretagnc, died in 
captivity ; having been kept a prisoner in Bristol 
24 



870 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Castle from the age of fifteen. She was at that 
time so beautiful, that she was called proverbially, 
" La belle Bretonne," and by the English the 
" Fair Maid of Brittany." She, hke her brother 
Arthur, was sacrificed to the ambition of her uncles. 

Of the two daughters of Constance by Guy de 
Thouars, the eldest, Alice, became Duchess of 
Bretagne, and married the Count de Dreux, of the 
royal blood of France. The sovereignty of Bre- 
tagne was transmitted through her descendants in 
an uninterrupted line, till, by the marriage of the 
celebrated Anne de Bretagne with Charles VIII. 
of France, her dominions were forever united with 
the French monarchy. 

In considering the real history of Constance, 
three things must strike us as chiefly remarkable. 

First, that she is not accused of any vice, or any 
act of injustice or violence ; and this praise, though 
poor and negative, should have its due weight, con- 
sidering the scanty records that remain of her 
troubled life, and the period at which she lived — 
a period in which crimes of the darkest dye were 
familiar occurrences. Her father, Conan, was con- 
sidered as a gentle and amiable prince — " gentle 
even to feebleness ; " yet we are told that on one 
c^casion he acted over again the tragedy of Ugo- 
lino and Buggiero, when he shut up the Count de 
Dol, with his two sons and his nephew, in a dungeon, 
and deliberately starved them to death ; an event 
recorded without any particular comment by the 
old chroniclers of Bretagne. It also appears that, 



CONSTANCE. 371 

during those intervals when Constance administered 
the government of her states with some degree of 
independence, the country prospered under her 
sway, and that she possessed at all times the love 
of her people and the respect of her nobles. 

Secondly, no imputation whatever has been cast 
on the honor of Constance as a wife and as a woman. 
The old historians, who have treated in a very un- 
ceremonious style the levities of her great-grand- 
mother Matilda, her grandmother Bertha, her god- 
mother Constance, and her mother-in-law Elinor, 
treat the name and memory of our Lady Constance 
with uniform respect. 

Her third marriage, with Guy de Thouars, has 
been censured as impolitic, but has also been de- 
fended ; it can hardly, considering her age, and 
the circumstances in which she was placed, be a 
just subject of reproach. During her hated union 
with Randal de Blondeville, and the years passed 
in a species of widowhood, she conducted herself 
with propriety : at least I can find no reason to 
judge otherwise. 

Lastly, we are struck by the fearless, determined 
spirit, amounting at times to rashness, which Con- 
stance displayed on several occasions, when left to 
the free exercise of her own power and will ; yet 
we see how frequently, with all this resolution and 
pride of temper, she became a mere instrument in 
tBe hands of others, and a victim to the superior 
craft or power of her enemies. The inference is 
unavoidable ; there must have existed in the mind 



872 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

of Constance, -with all her noble and amiable qual- 
ities, a deficiency somewhei'e, a want of firmness, 
a want of judgment or wariness, and a total want 
of self-control. 

***** 

In the play of King John, the three principal 
characters are the King, Falconbridge, and Lady 
Constance. The first is drawn forcibly and accu- 
rately from history : it reminds us of Titian's por- 
trait of Caesar Borgia, in which the hatefulness of 
the subject is redeemed by the masterly skill of the 
artist, — the truth, and power, and wonderful beauty 
of the execution. Falconbridge is the spirited 
creation of the poet. * Constance is certainly an 
historical personage ; but the form which, when 
we meet it on the record of history, appears like a 
pale indistinct shadow, half melted into its obscure 
background, starts before us into a strange relief 
and palpable breathing reality upon the page of 
Shakspeare. 

Whenever we think of Constance, it is in her 
maternal character. All the interest which she 
excites in the drama turns upon her situation as 
the mother of Arthur. Every circumstance in 

* Malone says, that " iu expanding the character of the bas- 
tard, Shakspeare seems to have proceeded on the following slight 
hint in an old play on the story of King John : — 

Next them a bastard of the king's deceased — 
A hardy wild-head, rough and venturous." 

It is easy to say this ; yet who but Shakspeare could have ex- 
panded the last line into a Falconbridge ? 



CO]S^STANCE. 873 

wliich she is placed, every sentiment slie utters, has 
a reference to him ; and she is represented through 
the whole of the scenes in which she is engaged, as 
alternately pleading for the rights, and trembling 
for the existence of her son. 

The same may be said of the Merope. In the 
four tragedies of which her story forms the subject,* 
we see her but in one point of view, namely, as a 
mere impersonation of the maternal feeling. The 
poetry of the situation is every thing, the character 
nothing. Interesting as she is, take Merope out 
of the circumstances in which she is placed, — take 
away her son, for whom she trembles from the first 
scene to the last, and Merope in herself is nothing ; 
she melts away into a name, to which we can fix 
no other characteristic by which to distinguish her. 
We recognize her no longer. Her position is that 
of an agonized mother ; and we can no more fancy 
her under a difierent aspect, than we can imagine 
the statue of Kiobe in a different attitude. 

But while we contemplate the character of Con- 
stance, she assumes before us an individuality per- 
fectly distinct from the circumstances around her. 
The action calls forth her maternal feelings, and 
places them in the most prominent point of view : 
but with Constance, as with a real human being, 



* The Greek Merope, which was esteemed one of the finest of 
the tragedies of Euripides, is UHhappily lost; those of Maflfei, Al- 
fieri, and Voltaire, are well known. There is another Merope in 
Italian, which I have not seen : the English Merope is merely a 
bad translation from Voltaire. 



874 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

the maternal affections are a powerful instinct, mod- 
ified by other faculties, sentiments, and impulses, 
making up the individual character. We think of 
her as a mother, because, as a mother distracted 
for the loss of her son, she is immediately presented 
before us, and calls forth our sympathy and our 
tears ; but we infer the rest of her character from 
what we see, as certainly and as completely as if 
we had known her whole course of life. "^ 

That which strikes us as the principal attribute 
of Constance is power — power of imagination, of . 
will, of passion, of affection, of pride : the moral 
energy, that faculty which is principally exercised 
in self-control, and gives consistency to the rest, is 
deficient ; or rather, to speak more correctly, the 
extraordinary development of sensibility and imag- 
ination, which lends to the character its rich poetical 
coloring, leaves the other qualities comparatively 
subordinate. Hence it is that the whole complexion 
of the character, notwithstanding its amazing gran- 
deur, is so exquisitely feminine. The weakness of 
the woman, who by the very consciousness of that 
weakness is worked up to desperation and defiance, 
the fluctuations of temper and the bursts of sublime 
passion, the terrors, the impatience, and the tears, 
are all most true to feminine nature. The energy 
of Constance not being barfed upon strength of 
character, rises and falls with the tide of passion. 
Her haughty spirit swells against resistance, and is 
excited into frenzy by sorrow and disappointment ; 
while neither from her towering pride, nor her 



CONSTANCE. 375 

strength of intellect, can she borrow patience to 
submit, or fortitude to endure. It is, therefore, -with 
perfect truth of nature, that Constance is first intro- 
duced as pleading for peace. 

Stay for an answer to your embassy, 
Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood: 
My Lord Chatillon may from England bring 
That right in peace, which here we urge in war; 
And then we shall repent each drop of blood, 
That hot, rash haste so indirectly shed. 

And that the same woman, when all her passions 
are roused by the sense of injury, should afterwards 
exclaim. 

War, war ! No peace ! peace is to me a war ! 

That she should be ambitious for her son, proud of 
his high birth and royal rights, and violent in de- 
fending them, is most natural ; but I cannot agree 
with those who think that in the mind of Constance, 
amhition — that is, the love of dominion for its own 
sake — is either a strong motive or a strong feeling : 
it could hardly be so where the natural impulses 
and the ideal power predominate in so high a 
degree. The vehemence with which she asserts 
the just and legal rights of her son is that of a fond 
mother and a proud-spirited woman, stung with the 
sense of injury, and herself a reigning sovereign, 
— by birth and inght, if not in fact : yet when be- 
reaved of her son, grief not only " fills the room up 
of her absent child," but seems to absorb every 
other faculty and feeling — even pride and anger. 



876 HISTORICAL CHARACTEIiS. 

It is true that she exults over hhn as one whom 
nature and fortune had destined to be great^ but 
in her distraction for his loss, she thinks of him 
only as her " Pretty Arthur." 

lord ! my boy, my Ai'tlmr, my fair son ! 
My life, my joy, my food, my all the Avorld ! 
My widow-comfort, aud my sorrow's cm^e! 

No other feeling can be traced through the whole 
of her frantic scene : it is grief only, a mother's 
heart-rending, soul-absorbing grief, and nothing 
else. Not even indignation, or the desire of re- 
venge, interfere with its soleness and intensity. 
An ambitious woman would hardly have thus ad- 
dressed the cold, wily Cardinal : — 

And, Father Cardinal, I have heard you say. 

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : 

If that be true, I shall see my boy again : 

For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 

To him that did but yesterday suspire, 

There was not such a gi-acious creature born. 

But now will canker eat my bud, 

And chase the native beauty from his cheek, 

And he will look as hollow as a ghost ; 

As dim and merge as an ague's fit; 

And so he'll die; and rising so again. 

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 

I shall not know him : therefore never, never, 

Must I behold my pretty Arthiir more I 

The bewildered pathos and poetry of this address 
could be natural in no woman, who did not unite, 
like Constance, the most passionate sensibility with 
the most vivid imagination. 

I 



CONSTANCE. 877 

It is true that Queen Elinor calls her on one oc- , 
casion, " ambitious Constance ; " but the epithet is* 
rather the natural expression of Elinor's own fear 
and hatred than really applicable.* Elinor, in 
whom age had subdued all passions but ambition, 
dreaded the mother of Arthur as her rival in 
power, and for that reason only opposed the claims 
of the son : but I conceive, that in a woman yet in 
the prime of life, and endued with the peculiar 
disposition of Constance, the mere love of power 
would be too much modified by fancy and feeling 
to be called a passion. 

In fact, it is not pride, nor temper, nor ambition, 
nor even maternal afiection, which in Constance 
gives the prevailing tone to the whole character : 
it is the predominance of imagination. I do not 
mean in the conception of the dramatic portrait, 
but in the temperament of the woman hei-self. In 
the poetical, fanciful, excitable cast of her mind, in 
the excess of the ideal power, tinging all her aflec- 
tions, exalting all her sentiments and thoughts, and 
animating the expression of both, Constance can 
only be compared to Juliet. \ 

In the first place, it is through the power of 
imagination that when under the influence of 
excited temper, Constance is not a mere incensed 
woman ; nor does she, in the style of Volumnia, 

* '• Queen Elinor saw that if he were king, how his mother 
Constance would look to bear the most rule in the realm of Eng- 
land, till her son should come of a lawful age to govern of him- 

Helf . "— HOUN SHED . 



378 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

"lament in anger, Juno-like," but rather like a 
sibyl in a fury. Her sarcasms come down like 
thunderbolts. In her famous address to Austria — 

Lymoges ! Austria ! tliou dost sliame 
That bloody spoil! thou slave! thou wretch! thou 
coward! &c. 

it is as if she had concentrated the burning spirit 
of scorn, and dashed it in his face : every word 
seems to blister where it falls. In the scolding 
scene between her and Queen Elinor, the laconic 
insolence of the latter is completely overborne by 
the torrent of bitter contumely which bursts from 
the lips of Constance, clothed in the most energetic, 
and often in the most figurative expressions. 

"* * ELIKOR. 

Who is it thou dost call usurper, France ? 

CONSTANCE. 

Let me make answer ; Thy usurping son. 

ELINOR. 

Out insolent ! thy bastax-d sliall be king, 

That thou may'st be a queen, and check the world ! 

CONSTANCE. 

My bed was ever to thy sou as true, 

As thine was to thy husband; and this boy 

Liker in feature to his father Geffrey, 

Than thou and John in manners : being as like 

As rain to water, or devil to his dam. 

My boy a bastard ! By my soul, I think 



N, 



CONSTANCE. 379 

His father never was so true begot ; 

It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. 

KLINOR. 

There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. 

CONSTANCE. 

There's a good gi-andam, boy, that would blot thee. 



ELINOR. 

Come to thy grandam, child. 

CONSTANCE. 

Do child; go to its grandam, child: 
Give gi'andam kingdom, and its grandam will 
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: 
There's a good gi-audam. 

ARTHUR. 

Good my mother, peace ! 
I would that I wei'e low laid in my grave ; 
I am not worth this coil that's made for me. 

ELINOR. 

His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. 

CONSTANCE. 

Now shame upon you, whe'r she does or no ! 

His grandam's wi-ongs, and not his mother's shame, 

Draw those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, 

Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee : 

Ay, Avith tliese crystal beads heav'n shall be bribed 

To do him justice, and revenge on you. 



380 UISTOllICAL CHARACTERS. 

ELINOR. 

Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth! 
Call me not slanderer; thou and thine usurp 
The dominations, royalties, and rights 
Of this oi^pressed boy. This is thy eldest son's son 
lufortunate in nothing but in thee. 

***** 

ELINOR. 

Thou unadvised scold, I can produce 
A will that bars the title of thy son. 

CONSTANCE. 

Ay, who doubts that? A will! a wicked will — 
A woman's will — a canker'd grandam's will! 

KING PHILIP. 

Peace, lady: pause, or be more moderate. 

And in a very opposite mood, when struggling 
"with the consciousness of her own lielplcss situa- 
tion, the same susceptible and excitable fancy still 
predominates : — 

Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me ; 

For I am sick, and capable of fears; 

Oppressed with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; 

A widow, husbandless, subject to fears ; 

A woman, naturally born to fears ; 

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest 

With my vexed spirits, I cannot take a truce. 

But they will quake and tremble all this day. 



CONSTANCE. 381 

What dost tliou mean b 3- shaking of thy head ? 
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son ? 
What means that hand upon that breast of thine? 
Wliy holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, 
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds ? 
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ? 

***** 
Fellow, begone ! I cannot brook thy sight — 
This news hath made thee a most ugly man ! 

It is the power of imagination which gives so 
peculiar a tinge to the maternal tenderness of Con- 
stance ; she not only loves her son with the fond 
instinct of a mother's affection, but she loves him 
with her poetical imagination, exults in his beauty 
and his royal birth, hangs over him with idolatry, 
and sees his infant brow already encircled with the 
diadem. Her proud spirit, her ardent enthusiastic 
fancy, and her energetic self-will, all combine with 
her maternal love to give it that tone and character 
which belongs to her only : hence that most beauti- 
ful address to her son, which coming from the 
lips of Constance, is as full of nature and truth as 
of pathos and poetry, and which we could hardly 
sympathize with in any other : — 

ARTHUR. 

I do beseech you, madam, be content. 

CONSTANCE. 

If thou, that bid'st me be content, wert grim. 
Ugly, and slanderous to thy mother's womb, 
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, 
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, ^>XcL 

r 3^ , 



382 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Patched with foul moles and eye-offending marks, 
I would not care — I then would be content ; 
For then I should not love thee ; no, nor thou 
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. 
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy I 
Nature and Fortune join'd to mak-- thee great: 
Of Nature's gifts thou mayest a' ai lilies boast, 
And with the half-blown rose : but Fortune, ! 
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee; 
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John ; 
And with her golden hand hath pluck' d on France 
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty. 

It is this exceeding vivacity of imagination 
which in the end turns sorrow to frenzy. Constance 
is not only a bereaved and doating mother, but a 
generous woman, betrayed by her own rash confi- 
dence ; in whose mind the sense of injury mingling 
with the sense of grief, and her impetuous temper 
conflicting with her pride, combine to overset her 
reason ; yet she is not mad : and how admirably, 
how forcibly she herself draws the distinction be- 
tween the frantic violence of uncontrolled feeling 
and actual madness ! — 

Thou art not holy to belie me so ; 

I am not mad : this hair I tear is mine ; 

My name is Constance ; I was Geffrey's wife ; 

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: 

I am not mad ; I would to Heaven I were ! 

For then, 'tis like I should forget myself: 

0, if I could, what grief should I forget ! 

Not only has Constance words at will, and fast 



CONSTANCE. 383 

as the passionate feelings rise in her mind they are 
poured forth with vivid, overpowering eloquence ; 
but, like Juliet, she may be said to speak in pic- 
tures. For instance : — 

"Wliy holds tliiu. ^^e that lamentable rheum? 
Like a proud river peering o'er its bounds. 

And throughout the whole dialogue there is the 
same overflow of eloquence, the same splendor of 
diction, the same luxuriance of imagery ; yet with 
an added grandeur, arising from habits of com- 
mand, from the age, the rank, and the matronly 
character of Constance. Thus Juliet pours forth 
her love like a muse in a rapture : Constance raves 
in her sorrow like a Pythoness possessed with the 
spirit of pain. The love of Juliet is deep and in- 
finite as the boundless sea : and the grief of Con- 
stance is so great, that nothing but the round world 
itself is able to sustain it. 

I win instruct my soitows to be proud ; 

For grief is proud and makes his owner stout. 

To me, and to the state of my gi*eat grief 

Let kings assemble, for my grief's so great. 

That no supporter but the huge finn earth 

Can hold it up. Here I and Sorrow sit; 

Here is my throne, — bid kings come bow to it ! 

An image more majestic, more wonderfully sub- 
lime, was never presented to the fancy ; yet almost 
equal as a flight of poetry is her apostrophe to the 
heavens ; — 



384 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Arm, arm, ye heavens, against these perjured kings, 
A widow calls ! — be husband to me, heavens ! 

And again — 

that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth, 
Then with a passion would I shake the world! 

Not only do her thoughts start into images, but her 
feelings become persons : grief haunts her as a 
living presence : 

Grief fills the room up of my absent child ; 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Remembers me of all his gi-acious parts. 
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; 
Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 

And death is welcomed as a bridegroom ; she 
sees the visionary monster as Juliet saia " the 
bloody Tybalt festering in his shroud," and heaps 
one ghastly image upon another with all the wild 
luxuriance of a distempered fancy : — 

amiable, lovely death ! 
Thou odoriferous stench ! sound rottenness ! 
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night. 
Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 
And I will kiss thy detestable bones; 
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows ; 
And ring these fingers with thy household worms; 
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust; 
And be a carrion monster like thyself: 



CONSTANCE. 385 

Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st, 
And buss thee as thy wife ! Misery's love, 
come to me ! 

Constance, who is a majestic being, is majestic in ■ 
her very frenzy. Majesty is also the characteristic 
of Hermione : but what a difference between her 
silent, lofty, uncomplaining despair, and the elo- 
quent grief of Constance, whose wild lamentations, 
which come bursting forth clothed in the grandest, . 
the most poetical imagery, not only melt, but abso- 
lutely electrify us ! 

On the whole, it may be said that pride and ma- /; 
ternal affection form the basis of the character of ! 
Constance, as it is exhibited to us ; but that these 
passions, in an equal degree common to many 
human beings, assume their peculiar and individual 
tinge from an extraordinary development of intel- 
lect and fancy. It is the energy of passion which 
lends the character its concentrated power, as it is 
the prevalence of imagination throughout which 
dilates it into magnificence. 

Some of the most splendid poetry to be met 
with In Shakspeare, may be found in the parts of 
Juliet and Constance ; the most splendid, perhaps, 
excepting only the parts of Lear and Othello ; and 
for the same reason, — that Lear and Othello as 
men, and Juliet and Constance as women, are dis- 
tinguished by the predominance of the same facul- 
ties, — passion and imagination. ♦ 

The sole deviation from history which may be 
considered as essentially interfering with the truth 
25 



886 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

of the situation, is the entire omission of the char- 
acter of Guy de Thouars, so that Constance is 
incorrectly represented as in a state of widowhood, 
at a period when, in point of fact, she was married. 
It may be observed, that her marriage took place 
just at the period of the opening of the drama; 
that Guy de Thouars played no conspicuous part 
in the affairs of Bretagne till after the death of 
Constance, and that the mere presence of this per- 
sonage, altogether superfluous in the action, would 
have completely destroyed the dramatic interest of 
the situation ; — and what a situation ! One more 
magnificent was never placed before the mind's 
eye than that of Constance, when, deserted and 
betrayed, she stands alone in her despair, amid her 
false friends and her ruthless enemies!* The 
image of the mother-eagle, wounded and bleeding 
to death, yet stretched over her young in an atti- 
tude of defiance, while all the baser birds of prey 
are clamoring around her eyry, gives but a faint 
idea of the moral sublimity of this scene. Con- 
sidered merely as a poetical or dramatic picture, 
the grouping is wonderfully fine ; on one side, the 
vulture ambition of that mean-souled tyrant, John ; 
on the other, the selfish, calculating policy of 
Philip : between them, balancing their passions in 
his hand, the cold, subtle, heartless Legate : the 
fiery, reckless Falconbridge ; the princely Louis ; 
the still unconquered spirit of that wrangling 
queen, old Elinor ; the bridal loveliness and mod- 

* King John, Act iii. Scene 1. 



QUEEN ELIXOR. 387 

esty of Blanche ; the boyish grace and innocence 
of young Arthur ; and Constance in the midst of 
them, in all the state of her great grief, a grand 
impersonation of pride and passion, helpless at 
once and desperate, — form an assemblage of fig- 
ures, each perfect in its kind, and, taken all to- 
gether, not surpassed for the variety, force, and 
splendor of the dramatic and picturesque effect. 



QUEEN ELINOR. 

Elinor of Guienne, and Blanche of Castile, who 
form part of the group around Constance, are 
sketches merely, but they are strictly historical 
portraits, and full of truth and spirit. 

At the period when Shakspeare has brought 
these three women on the scene together, Elinor 
of Guienne (the daughter of the last Duke of 
Guienne and Aquitaine, and like Constance, the 
heiress of a sovereign duchy) was near the close 
of her long, various, and uncjuiet life — she i was 
nearly seventy : and, as in early youth, her violent 
passions had overborne both principle and policy, 
so in her old age we see the same character, only 
modified by time ; her strong intellect and love of 
power, unbridled by conscience or principle, sur- 
viving when other passions were extinguished, 



S^8 HISTORICAL CnARACTERS. 

and rendered more dangerous by a degree of \ 
subtlety and self-command to which her youth had 1 
been a stranger. Her personal and avowed hatred ; 
for Constance, together with its motives, are men- 
tioned by the old historians. Holinshed expressly 
says, that Queen Elinor was mightily set against 
her grandson Arthur, rather moved thereto by envy 
conceived against his mother, than by any fault ofj 
the young prince, for that she knew and dreaded 
the high spirit of the Lady Constance. 

Shakspeare has rendered this with equal spirit 
and fidelity. \ 

QUEEN ELINOR. 

What now, my son ! have I not ever said, 

How that ambitious Constance would not cease, 

Till she had kindled France and all the world 

Upon the right and party of her son ? 

This might have been prevented and made whole 

With very easy arguments of love ; 

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must 

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. 

KING JOHN. 

Our strong possession and our right for us ! 

QUEEN ELINOR. / 

Your strong possession much more than your right; / 
Or else it must go wrong with you and me. ' 

So much my conscience whispers in your ear — 
Which none but Heaven, and you, and I shall hear. 

Queen Elinor preserved to the end of her life 
her influence over her children, and appears to \ 
have merited their respect. While intrusted with 



BLANCHE. 389 

the government, during the absence of Richard I., 
she ruled with a steady hand, and made herself 
exceedingly popular ; and as long as she lived to 
direct the counsels of her son John, his affairs 
prospered. For Ithat intemperate jealousy which 
converted her into a domestic firebrand, there was 
at least much cause, though little excuse. Elinor 
had hated and wronged the husband of her youth,* 
and she had afterwards to endure the negligence 
and innumerable infidelities of the husband whom 
she passionately loved : f — " and so the whirligig 
of time brought in his revenges." Elinor died in 
1203, a -few months after Constance, and before 
the murder of Arthur — a crime which, had she lived, 
would probably never have been consummated; 
for the nature of Elinor, though violent, had no 
tincture of the baseness and cruelty of her son. 



BLANCHE. 

Blanche of Castile was the daughter of Al- 
phonso IX. of Castile, and the grand-daughter of 

* Louis VII. of France, ■whom she was accustomed to call, in 
contempt, the monk. Elinor's adventures in Syria, whither she 
accompanied Louis on the second Crusade, would form a 
romance. 

t Ilenrj' II. of England. It is scarcely necessary to observe 
that the story of Fair Rosamond, as far as Elinor is concerned, 
is a mere invention of some ballad-maker of later times. 



390 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Elinor. At the time that she is introduced into 
the drama, she was about fifteen, and her marriage 
■with Louis VIIL, then Dauphin, took place in the 
abrupt manner here represented. It is not often 
that political marriages have the same happy- 
result. We are told by the historians of that 
time, that from the moment Louis and Blanche 
met, they were inspired by a mutual passion, and 
that during a union of more than twenty-six years 
they were never known to differ, nor even spent 
more than a single day asunder * 

In her exceeding beauty and blameless reputa- 
tion ; her love for her husband, and strong domes- 
tic affections ; her pride of biilh and rank ; her 
feminine gentleness of deportment ; her firmness 
of temper ; her religious bigotry ; her love of abso- 
lute power, and her upright and conscientious 
administration of it, Blanche greatly resembled 
Maria Theresa of Austria. She was, however, of 
a more cold and calculating nature ; and in pro- 
portion as she was less amiable as a woman, did 
she rule more happily for herself and others. 
There cannot be a greater contrast than between 
the acute understanding, the steady temper, and 
the cool intriguing policy of Blanche, by which 
she succeeded in disuniting and defeating the 
powers arrayed against her and her infant son, 
and the rash confiding temper and susceptible im- 
agination of Constance, which rendered herself 

* Vide Mezerai. 



LADY PERCY. 391 

and her son easy victims to the fraud or ambition 
of others. Blanche, during forty years, held in her 
hands the destinies of the greater pai't of Europe, 
and is one of the most celebrated names recorded 
in history — but in what does she survive to us ex- 
cept in a name ? Nor history, nor fame, though 
" trumpet-tongued," could do for her what Shak- 
speare and poetry have done for Constance. The 
earthly reign of Blanche is over, her sceptre 
broken, and her power departed. When will 
the reign of Constance cease V when will her 
power depart ? Not while this world is a world, 
and there exists in it human souls to kindle at the 
touch of genius, and human hearts to throb with 

human sympathies ! 

***** 

There is no female character of any interest in 
the play of Richard II. The Queen (Isabelle of 
France) enacts the same passive part in the drama 
that she does in history. 

The same remark applies to Henry IV. In this 
admirable play there is no female character of any 
importance ; but Lady Percy, the wife of Hotspur, 
is a very lively and beautiful sketch : she is 
sprightly, feminine, and fond; but without any 
thing energetic or profound, in mind or in feeling. 
Her gaycty and spirit in the first scenes, are the 
result of youth and happiness, and nothing can be 
more natural than the utter dejection and broken- 
ness of heart which follow her husband's death: 
she is no heroine for war or tragedy ; she has no 



392 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

thought of revenging her loss ; and even her grief 
has something soft and quiet in its pathos. Her 
speech to her father-in-law, Northumberland, in 
•which she entreats him " not to go to the wars, 
and at the same time pronounces the most beauti- 
ful eulogium on her heroic husband, is a perfect 
piece of feminine eloquence, both in the feeling 
and in the expression. 

Almost every one knows by heart Lady Percy's 
celebrated address to her husband, beginning, 

Oj my good lord, why are you thus alone V 

and that of Portia to Brutus, in Julius Caesar, 

You've ungently, Brutus, 
Stol'n from my bed. 

The situation is exactly similar, the topics of 
remonstrance are nearly the same ; the sentiments 
and the style as opposite as are the characters of 
the two women. Lady Percy is evidently accus- 
tomed to win more from her fiery lord by caresses 
than by reason : he loves her in his rough way, 
" as Harry Percy's wife," but she has no real influ- 
ence over him : he has no confidence in her. 

LADY PERCY. 

In faith, 
I'U know your business, HaiTy, that I will; 
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir 
About this title, and hath sent for you 
To line his enterprise, but if jou go — 



PORTIA. 393 

HOTSPUR. 

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love ! 

The whole scene is admirable, but unnecessary 
here, because it Illustrates no point of character in 
her. Lady Percy has no cliaracter, properly so 
called ; whereas, that of Portia is very distinctly 
and faithfully drawn from the outline furnished by 
Plutarch. Lady Percy's fond upbraidlngs, and 
her half playful, half pouting entreaties, scarcely 
gain her husband's attention. Portia, with true 
matronly dignity and tenderness, pleads her right 
to share her husband's thoughts, and proves it too. 

I grant I am a woman, but withal, 
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife ; 
I grant I am a woman, but withal, 
A woman well reputed — Cato's daughter. 
Think you, I am no stronger than my sex 
Being so father'd and so husbanded? 
* * * * 

BRUTUS. 

You are my true and honorable wife : 
As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops 
That visit my sad heart ! 

Portia, as Shakspcare has truly felt and repre- 
sented the character, is but a softened reflection of 
that of her husband Brutus : in him we see an 
excess of natural sensibility, an almost womanish 
tenderness of heart, repressed by the tenets of his 
austere philosophy: a stoic by profession, and in 
reality the reverse — acting deeds against his nature 



394 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

by the strong ibrce of principle and will. In 
Portia there is the same profound and passionate 
feeling, and all her sex's softness and timidity, held 
in check by that self-discipline, that stately dignity, 
which she thought became a woman " so flithered 
and so husbanded." The fact of her inflicting on 
herself a voluntary wound to try her own fortitude, 
is perhaps the strongest proof of this disposition. 
Plutarch relates, that on the day on which Csesar 
was assassinated, Portia appeared overcome with 
terror, and even swooned away, but did not in her 
emotion utter a word which could affect the con- 
spirators. Shakspeare has rendered this circum- 
stance literally. 

PORTIA. 

I pr'ythee, boy, run to the senate house, ■ 
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. 
Why dost thou stay ? 

LUCIUS. 

To know my errand, madam. 

PORTIA. 

I would have had thee there and hei*e again, 
Ere I can tell thee what thou should'st do there. 
constancy! be strong upon my side: 
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! 

; I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. 
Ah me ! how weak a thing 

. The heart of woman is ! 1 grow faint, &c. 

There is another beautiful incident related by 
Plutarch, which could not well be dramatized. 
When Brutus and Portia parted for the last time 



PORTIA. 395 

in the island of Nisida, she restrained all expression 
of grief that she might not shake his fortitude ; but 
afterwards, in passing through a chamber in which 
there hung a picture of Hector and Andromache., 
she stopped, gazed upon it for a time with a settled 
sorrow, and at length burst into a passion of 
tears* 

If Portia had been a Christian, and lived in later 
times, she might have been another Lady Russel ; 
but she made a poor stoic. No factitious or exter- 
nal control was sufficient to restrain such an exu- 
berance of sensibility and fi\ncy : and those who 
praise the philosophj of Portia and the heroism of 
her death, certainly mistook the character alto- 
gether. It is evident, from the manner of her 
death, that it was not deliberate self-destruction, 
" after the high Roman fashion," but took place in 
a paroxysm of madness, caused by overwrought 
and suppressed feeling, grief, terror, and suspense. 
Shakspeare has thus represented it : — 

BRUTUS. 

Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs ! 

CASSIUS. 

/Of your philosophy you make no use, 
If you give place to accidental evils. 

* When at Naples, I have often stood upon the rock at the ex- 
treme point of Posilippo, and looked down" upon the little Island 
of Nisida, and thought of this scene till I forgot the Lazaretto 
•which now deforms it : deforms it, liowever, to the fancy only, 
for the building itself, as it rise^ from amid the vines, the cypress- 
es, and fig-trees which embosom it, looks beautiful at a iistance. 



896 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

BRUTUS. 

No man bears soitow better; Portia's dead. 

CASSIUS. 

Ha!— Portia? 

BRUTUS. 

She is. dead. 

CASSIUS. 

How 'scap'd I killing when I cross'd you so? 
insupportable and touching loss — 
Upon what sickness ? 

BRUTUS. 

Impatient of ray absence, 
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 
Had made themselves so strong — (for with her death 
These tidings came) — with Hiis she fell distract^ 
And, her attendants absent, swallowed fir'e. 

So much for woman's philosophy 1 



MARGARET OF ANJOU. 

Malone has written an essay, to prove from 
external and internal evidence, that the three 
parts of King Henry VI. were not originally writ- 
ten by Shakspeare, but altered by him from two 
old plays,* with considerable improvements and 
additions of his own. Burke, Porson, Dr. Warbur- 

* " The contention of the two Houses of York and Lanca.ster," 
in two parts, supposed by Malone to have been written about 
1590. 



JVIARGARET OF ANJOU. 397 

ton, and Dr. Farmer, pronounced this piece of 
criticism convincing and unanswerable; but Dr. 
Johnson and Steevens would not be convinced, 
and, moreover, have contrived to answer the un- 
answerable. " Who shall decide when doctors dis- 
agree ? " The only arbiter in such a case is one's 
own individual taste and judgment. To me it ap- 
pears that the three parts of Henry VI. have less 
of poetry and passion, and more of unnecessary 
verbosity and inflated language, than the rest of 
Shakspeare's works ; that the continual exhibition 
of treachery, bloodshed, and violence, is revolting, 
and the want of unity of action, and of a pervading 
interest, oppressive and fatiguing; but also that 
there are splendid passages in the Second and 
Third Parts, such as Shakspeare alone could have 
written : and this is not denied by the most skep- 
tical. * 

* I abstain from making any remarks on the character of Joan 
of Arc, as. delineated in the First part of Henry VI. ; first, be- 
cause I do not in my conscience attribute it to Shakspeare, and 
secondly, because in representing her according to the Tulgar 
English traditions, as half sorceress, half enthusiast, and in the 
end, corrupted by pleasure and ambition, the truth of history, 
and the truth of nature, justice, and common sense, are equally 
violated. Schiller has treated the character nobly : but in mak- 
ing Joan the slave of passion, and the victim of love, instead of 
the victim of patriotism, has committed, I think, a serious error 
in judgment and feeling ; and I cannot sympathize with Madame 
de Stael's defence of him on this particular point. There was no 
occasion for this deviation from the truth of things, and from 
the dignity and spotless purity of the character. This young 
enthusiast, with her religious reveries, her simplicity, her hero- 
ism, her melancholy, her sensibility, her fortitude, her perfectly 



398 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Among the arguments against the authenticity 
of these plays, the character of Margaret of Anjou 
has not been adduced, and yet to those who have 
studied Shakspeare in his own spirit, it will appear 
the most conclusive .Qf_a]Jx When we compare her 
with his other female characters, we are struck at 
once by the want of family likeness ; Shakspeare 
was not always equal, but he had not two manners, 
as they say of painters. I discern his hand in par- 
ticular parts, but I cannot recognize his spirit in 
the conception of the whole : he may have laid on 
some of the colors, but the original design has a 
certain hardness and heaviness, very unlike his 
usual style. Margaret of Anjou, as exhibited in 
these tragedies, is a dramatic portrait of consider- 
able truth, and vigor, and consistency — but she is 
not one of Shakspeare's women. He who knew so 
well in what true greatness of spirit consisted — 
who could excite our respect and sympathy even 
for a Lady Macbeth, would never have given us a 
heroine without a touch of heroism ; he would not 
have portrayed a high-hearted woman, struggling 
unsubdued against the strangest vicissitudes of for- 
tune, meeting reverses and disasters, such as would 

feminine bearing in all her exploits, (for though she so often led 
the van of battle unshriukiug, while death was all around her, 
she never struck a blow, nor stained her consecrated sword with 
blood, — another point in which Schiller has wronged her,) this 
heroine and martyr, over whose last moments we shed burning, 
tears of pity and indignation, remains yet to be treated as a 
dramatic character, and I know but one person capable of doing 
this. 



MARGARET OF ANJOU. 399 

have broken the most masculine spirit, with un- 
shaken constancy, yet left her without a single 
pei'sonal quality which would excite our interest in 
her bravely-endured misfoi'tunes ; and this too in 
the very face of history. He would not have given 
us, in Ueu of the magnanimous queen, the subtle 
and accomplished French woman, a mere " Ama- 
zonian trull," with every coarser feature of deprav- 
ity and ferocity; he would have redeemed her 
from unmingled detestation ; he would have breathed 
into her some of his own sweet spirit — he would 
have given the woman a soul. 

The old chronicler Hall informs us, that Queen 
Margaret " excelled all other as well in beauty and 
favor, as in wit and policy, and was in stomach and 
courage more like to a man than to a woman." He 
adds, that after the espousals of Henry and JNIar- 
garet, " the king's friends fell from him ; the lords 
of the realm fell in division among themselves ; the 
Commons rebelled against their natural prince ; 
fields were foughten ;' many thousands slain ; and, 
finally, the king Avas deposed, and his son slain, 
and his queen sent home again with as much misery 
and sorrow as she was received with pomp and 
triumph." 

This passage seems to have furnished the ground- 
work of the character as it is developed in these 
plays with no great depth or skill. Margaret is 
portrayed with all the exterior graces of her sex ; 
as bold and artful, with spirit to dare, resolution to 
act, and fortitude to endure ; but treacherous, 



400 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

haughty, dissembling, vindictive, and fierce. The 
bloody struggle for power in which she was en- 
gaged, and the companionship of the ruthless iron 
men around her, seem to have left her nothing of 
womanhood but the heart of a mother — that last 
stronghold of our feminine nature ! So far the 
character is consistently drawn : it has something 
of the power, but none of the flowing ease of Shak- 
speare's manner. There are fine materials not 
well applied ; there is poetry in some of the scenes 
and speeches ; the situations are often exceedingly 
poetical ; but in the character of Margaret herself, 
there is not an atom of poetry. In her artificial 
dignity, her plausible wit, and her endless volubil- 
ity, she would remind us of some of the most ad- 
mired heroines of French tragedy, but for that 
unlucky box on the ear which she gives the 
Duchess of Gloster, — a violation of tragic decorum, 
which of course destroys all parallel. 

Having said thus much, I shall point out some 
of the finest and most characteristic scenes in 
which Margaret appears. The speech in which 
she expresses her scorn of her meek husband, and 
her impatience of the power exercised by those 
fierce overbearing barons, York, Salisbury, War- 
wick, Buckingham, is very fine, and conveys as 
faithful an idea of those feudal times as of the 
woman who speaks. The burst of female spite 
with which she concludes, is admirable — 

Not all these lords do vex me half so much 
As that proud dame, the Lord Protector's wife. 



MARGARET OF AXJOU. 401 

She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, i 
More Hke an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife. | 
/Strangers in court do take her for the queen: | 

She bears a duke's revenues on her back, ' 

And in her heart she scorns our poverty. , 

Shall I not live to be avenged on herV 
Contemptuous base-born callet as she is ! 
She vaunted 'moiigst her minions t'other day, 
The very train of her worst wearing gown 
Was better worth than all my father's lands, 
Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. 

Her intriguing spirit, the facility with which she 
enters into the murderous confederacy against the 
good Duke HumjDhrey, the artful plausibility with 
which she endeavours to turn suspicion from her- 
self — confounding her gentle consort by mere dint 
of words — are exceedingly characteristic, but not 
the less revolting. 

Her criminal love for Suffolk (which Is a dra- 
matic incident, not an liistoric fact) gives rise to 
the beautiful parting scene in the third act; a 
scene which it is impossible to read without a thrill 
of emotion, hurried away by that power and pathos 
which forces us to sympathize with the eloquence 
of grief, yet excites not a momentary interest either 
for Margaret or her lover. The ungoverncd fury 
of Margaret in the first instance, the manner in 
which she calls on Suffolk to curse his enemies, 
and then shrinks back overcome by the violence of 
the spirit she had herself evoked, and terrified by 
the vehemence of his imprecations ; the transition 
in her mind from the extremity of rage to tears 
26 



402 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

and melting fondness, have been pronounced, and 
justly, to be in Shakspe are's own manner. 

Go, speak not to me — even now begone. 
O go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn'd 
Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, ^ 
Loather a hundred times to pai-t than die : ' ^ 

Yet now farewell ; and farewell life with thee ! 

which is followed by that beautiful and intense 
burst of passion from Suffolk — 

'Tis not the hand I care for, wert thou hence; 
/. vvilderness is populous enough, 
:':• Suffolk had thy heavenly company: 
("or where thou art, there is the world itself, 
vVith every several pleasure in the world; 
And Avhere thou art not, desolation ! 

In the third part of Henry the Sixth, Margaret, 
engaged in the terrible struggle for her husband's 
throne, appears to rather more advantage. The 
indignation against Henry, who had pitifully yielded 
his son's birthright for the privilege of reigning 
unmolested during his own life^ is worthy of her, 
and gives rise to a beautiful speech. We are here 
inclined to sympathize with her ; but soon after 
follows the murder of the Duke of York ; and the 
base revengeful spirit and atrocious cruelty with 
which she insults over him, unanned and a prisoner, 
— the bitterness of her mockery, and the un- 
womanly malignity with which she presents him 
with the napkin stained with the blood of his 



I 



QUEEN MARGARET. 403 

youngest son, and " bids tlie father wipe his eyes \ 

withal," turn all our sympathy into aversion and j 

horror. York replies in the celebrated speech, \ 
beginning — 

She-wolf of France, and worse than wolves of France, 
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth — 

and taunts her with the poverty of her father, the 
most irritating topic he could have chosen. 

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to msult ? 
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen. 
Unless the adage must be verified. 
That beggars, mounted, ride their horse to death, 
'lis beauty, that doth oft make women proud; 
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 
'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired; 
The contrary doth make thee wondered at. 
'Tis government that makes them seem divine, 
The want thereof makes thee abominable. 

* * * * ^ 

tiger's heart, wrapped in a woman's hide! 
How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child 
To bid the f\ither wipe his face Avithal, 
And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? 
Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible. 
Thou stern, obdurate, fiiiaty, rough, remorseless ! 

By such a woman as Margaret is here depicted 
such a speech could be answered only in one way— 
with her dagger's point — and thus she answers it. 

It is some comfort to reflect that this trait of 
ferocity is not historical : the body of the Duke 



404 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

of York was found, after the battle, among the 
heaps of slain, and his head struck off: but even 
this was not done by the command of Margaret. 

In another passage, the truth and consistency of 
the character of Margaret are sacrificed to the march 
of the dramatic action, with a very ill effect. When 
her fortunes were at the very lowest ebb, and she 
had sought refuge in the court of the French king, 
Warwick, her most formidable enemy, upon some 
disgust he had taken against Edward the Fourth, 
offered to espouse her cause ; and proposed a 
match between the prince her son and his daughter 
Anne of Warwick — the "gentle Lady Anne," 
who figures in Richard the Third. In the play, 
Margaret embraces the offer without a moment's 
hesitation : * we are disgusted by her versatile 
•policy, and a meanness of spirit in no way allied 
to the magnanimous forgiveness of her terrible ad- 
versary. The Margaret of history sternly resisted 
this degrading expedient. She could not, she said, 
pardon from her heart the man who had been the 
primary cause of all her misfortunes. She mistrusted 
Warwick, despised him for the motives of his revolt 
from Edward, and considered that to match her son 
into the family of her enemy from mere policy, 
was a species of degradation. It took Louis the 

* See Ileury VI. Part in. Act. iii. sc. 3— 

QUEEX MARGARET. 

Warwick, these words have turned my hate to love.— 

And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 

And joy, that thoa becom'st King Henry's friend. 



QUEEN MAKGARET. 405 

Eleventh, with all his art and eloquence, fifteen 
days to wring a reluctant consent, accompanied Avith 
tears, from this high-hearted woman. 

The speech of Margaret to her council of gener- 
als before the battle of Tewksbury, (Act v. scene 
5,) is as remarkable a specimen of false rhetoric, 
as her address to the soldiers, on the eve of the 
fight, is of true and passionate eloquence. 

She witnesses the final defeat of her army, the 
massacre of her adherents, and the murder of her 
son ; and though the savage Richard would willingly 
have put an end to her misery, and exclaims very 
pertinently-r- 

Why should she live to fill the world with words? 

she is dragged forth unharmed, a woful spectacle 
of extremest wretchedness, to which death would 
have been an undeserved relief. If we compare 
the clamorous and loud exclaims of Margaret after 
the slaughter of her son, to the ravings of Con- 
stance, we shall perceive where Shakspeare's 
genius did not preside, and where it did. Margaret, 
in bold defiance of history, but with fine dramatic 
effect, is introduced again in the gorgeous and 
polluted court of Edward the Fourth. There she 
stalks around the seat of her former greatness, like 
a terrible phantom of departed majesty, uncrowned, 
unsceptered, desolate, powerless — or like a vampire 
thirsting for blood — or like a grim prophetess of 
evil, imprecating that ruin on the head of her 
enemies, which she lived to see realized. The 



406 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

scene following the murder of the princes in the 
Tower, in which Queen EHzabeth and the Duchess 
of York sit down on the ground bewailing their 
desolation, and Margaret suddenly appears from 
behind them, like the very personification of woe, 
and seats herself beside them revelling in their 
despair, is, in the general conception and effect, 
grand and appalling. 
-^ _ ^ 

THE DUCHESS. 

0, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes; 
God witness with me, I have wept for thine ! 

QUEEN MARGARET. 

Bear with me, I am hungry for revenge, 

And now I cloy me with beliolding it. 

Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward; 

Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward : 

Young York he is but boot, because both they 

Match not the high perfection of my loss. 

Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward; 

And the beholders of this tragic play. 

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, 

Untimely smother' d in their dusky graves. 

Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer, 

Only reserv'd their factor, to buy souls 

And send them thither. But at hand, at hand. 

Ensues his piteous and unpitied end; 

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar for him : saints pray 

To have him suddenly convey'd from hence. 

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I px*ay. 

That I may live to say. The dog is dead. * 

* Horace Walpole observes, that "it is evident from the con- 
duct of Shakspeare, that the house of Tudor retained all their 



KATHERIXE OF ARRAGOX. 407 

She should have stopped here ; but the efTect 
thus powerfully excited is marred and weakened 
by so much superfluous rhetoric, that ^Ye are 
tempted to exclaim with the old Duchess of York — 

Why should calamity be full of words ? 



^QUEEN KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 

To have a just idea of the accuracy and beauty 
of this liistorical portrait, we ought to bring 
immediately before us those circumstances of 
Katherine's Hfe and times, and those parts of her 
character, which belong to a period previous to the 
opening of the play. We shall then be better able 
to appreciate the skill with which Shakspeare has 
applied the materials before him. 

Katherine of Arragon, the fourth and youngest 
daughter of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, and 
Isabella of Castile, was born at Alcala, whither her 
mother had retired to winter after one of the most 
terrible campaigns of the Moorish war — that of 
1485. 

Katherine had derived from nature no dazzling 

Lancasterian prejudices eTcn in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
In his play of Richard the Third, he seems to deduce the woes 
of the house of York from the curses which Queen Margaret had 
vented against them ; and he could not give that weight to her 
curses, without supposing a right in her to utter them." 



408 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

qualities of mind, and no striking advantages of 
person. She inherited a tincture of Queen Isabella's 
haughtiness and obstinacy of temper, but neither 
her beauty nor her splendid talents. Her education 
under the direction of that extraordinary mother, 
had implanted in her mind the most austere prin- 
ciples of virtue, the highest ideas of female decorum, 
the most narrow and bigoted attachment to the 
forms of religion, and that excessive pride of birth 
and rank, which distinguished so jjarticularly her 
family and her nation. In other respects, her Un- 
derstanding was strong, and her judgment clear. 
The natural turn of her mind was simple, serious, 
and domestic, and all the impulses of her heart 
kindly and benevolent. Such was Katherlne ; such, 
at least, she appears on a reference to the chron- 
icles of her times, and particularly from her own 
letters, and the papers written or dictated by her- 
self which relate to her divorce ; all of which are 
distinguished by the same artless simplicity of style, 
the same quiet good sense, the same resolute, yet 
gentle spirit and fervent piety. 

When five years old, Katherine was solemnly 
affianced to Arthur, Prince of Wales, the eldest son 
of Henry Vll. ; and in the year 1501, she landed 
in England, after narrowly escaping shipwreck on 
the southern coast, from which every advei"se wind 
conspired to drive her. She was received in London 
with great honor, and immediately on her arrival 
united to the young prince. He was then fifteen, 
and Katherine in her seventeenth year. 



KATHERINE OF* AERAGON. 409 

Arthur, a3 itis well known, survived bis marriage 
only five months ; and the reluctance of Henry 
VII. to refund the splendid dowry of the Infanta, 
and forego the advantages of an alliance with the 
most powerfid prince of Europe, suggested the idea 
of uniting Katherine to his second son Henry; 
after some hesitation, a dispensation was procured 
from the Pope, and she was betrothed to Henry in 
her eighteenth year. The prince, who was then only 
twelve years old, resisted as far as he was able to 
do so, and appears to have really felt a degree of 
fiorror at the idea of marrying his brother's widow. 
Nor was the mind of King Henry at rest ; as his 
health declined, his conscience reproached him with 
the equivocal nature, of the union into which he 
had forced his son ; and the vile motives of avarice 
and expediency which had governed him on this 
occasion. A short time previous to his death, he 
dissolved the engagement, and even caused Henry 
to sign a paper in which he solemnly renounced 
all idea of a future union with the Infanta. It is 
observable, that Henry signed this paper with re- 
luctance, and that Katherine, instead of being sent 
back to her own country, still remained in England. 

It appears that Henry, who was now about sev- 
enteen, had become interested for Katherine, who 
was gentle and amiable. The difference of years 
was rather a circumstance in her favor ; for Henry 
was just at tliat age, when a youth is most likely to 
be captivated by a woman older than himself: and 
no sooner was he required to renounce her, than 



410 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

the interest she had gradually gained in his affec- 
tions, became, by opposition, a strong passion. 
Immediately after his father's death, he declared 
his resolution to take for his wife the Lady Kathe- 
rine of Spain, and none other; and when the 
matter was discussed in council, it was urged that, 
besides the many advantages of the match in a 
political point of view, she had given so " much 
proof of virtue, and sweetness of condition, as they 
knew not where to parallel her." About six weeks 
after his accession, June 3, 1509, the marriage was 
celebrated with truly royal splendor, Henry being 
^ then eighteen, and Katherine in her twenty-fourth 
year. 

It has been said with truth, that if Henry had 
died while Katherine was yet his wife, and Wolsey 
his minister, he would have left behind him the 
character of a magnificent, popular, and accom- 
plished prince, instead of that of the most hateful 
ruffian and tyrant who ever swayed these realms. 
Notwithstanding his occasional infidelities, and his 
impatience at her midnight vigils, her long prayers, 
and her religious austei'ities, Katherine and Henry 
lived in harmony together. He was fond of openly 
displaying his respect and love for her ; and she 
exercised a strong and salutary influence over his 
turbulent and despotic spirit. When Henry set 
out on his expedition to France, in 1513, he left 
Katherine regent of the kingdom during his absence, 
with full powers to carry on the war against the 
Scots ; and the Earl of Surrey at the head of the 



KATHEKIXE OF AKKAGON. 411 

army, as her lieutenant-general. It is curious to 
find Katherine — the pacific, domestic, and unpre- 
tending Katherine — describing herself as having 
" her heart set to war," and " horrible busy " "with 
making " standards, banners, badges, scarfs, and 
the like." * Nor was this mere silken preparation 
— mere dalliance with the pomp and circumstance 
of war ; for within a few weeks afterwards, her 
general defeated the Scots in the famous battle of 
Floddenfield, where James IV. and most of his 
nobility were slain, f 

Katherine's letter to Henry, announcing this 
event, so strikingly displays the piety and tender- 
ness, the quiet simplicity, and real magnanimity 
of her character, that there cannot be a more apt 
and beautiful illustration of the exquisite truth and 
keeping of Shakspeare's portrait. 

Sir, 
My Lord Howard hath sent me a letter, open to 
your Grace, within one of mine, by the which ye 
shall see at length the great victory that our Lord 
hath sent your subjects in your absence : and for 
this cause, it is no need herein to trouble your 
Grace with long wridng ; but to my thinking this 
battle hath been to your Grace, and all your realm, 
the greatest honor that could be, and more than ye 
should win all the crown of France, thanked be 
God for it! And I am sure your Grace forgetteth 

* See her letters in Ellis's Collection. 

t Undei- similar circumstancos. one of Katherine's predecessors, 
Philippa of Hainault, had gained in her husbr^d's absence tho 
battle of Neville Cross, in which David Lruce was taken prisoner. 



412 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

not to do this, which shall be cause to send you 
many more such great victories, as I trust he shall 
do. My husband, for haste, with Rougecross, I 
could not send your Grace the piece of the king 
of Scots' coat, which John Glyn now bringeth. 
In this your Grace shall see how I can keep my 
promise, sending you for your banners a king's 
coat. I thought to send himself unto you, but our 
Englishmen's hearts would not suffer it. It should 
have been better for him to have been in peace 
than have this reward, but all that God sendeth is 
for the best. My Lord of Surrey, my Henry, would 
fain know your pleasure" in the burying of the king 
of Scots' body, for he hath written to me so. With 
the next messenger, your Grace's pleasure may be 
herein known. And with this I make an end, pray- 
ing God to send you home shortly ; for without 
this, no joy here can be accomplished— and for the 
same I pray.. And now go to our Lady at Wal- 
syngham, that I promised so long ago to see. 

At Woburn, the 16th day of September, (1513.) 
I send your Grace herein a bill, found in a Scot- 
tishman's purse, of such things as the French king 
sent to the said king of Scots, to make war against 
you, beseeching you to send Mathew hither as soon 
as this messenger cometh with tidings of your 
Grace. 

Your humble wife and true servant, 
Katherine.* 

* Ellis's Collection. "We must keep in mind that Kathcrine 
was a foreigner, and till after she was seventeen, never spoke oi 
wrote a word of English. 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 413 

The legality of the king's marriage -with Kathe- 
rine remained undisputed till 1527. In the course 
of that year, Anna Bullen first appeared at court, 
and was appointed maid of honor to the queen ; 
and then, and not till then, did Henry's union with 
his brother's wife " creep too near his conscience." 
In the following year, he sent special messengers 
to Kome, with secret instructions : they were re- 
quired to discover (among other " hard questions ") 
whether, if the queen entered a religious life, the 
king might have the Pope's dispensation to marry 
again ; and whether if the king (for the better 
inducing the queen thereto) would enter himself 
into a religious life, the Pope would dispense with 
the king's vow, and leave her there ? 

Poor Kathenne ! we are not surprised to read 
that when she understood what was intended 
against her, " she labored with all those passions 
which jealousy of the king's affection, sense of her 
own honor, and the legitimation of her daughter, 
could produce, laying in conclusion the whole fault 
on the Cardinal." It is elsewhere said, that "Wol- 
sey bore the queen ill-will, in consequence of her 
reflecting with some severity on his haughty tem- 
per, and very unclerical life. 

The proceedings were pending for nearly six 
years, and one of the causes of this long delay, in 
spite of Henry's impatient and despotic character, 
is worth noting. The old Chronicle tells us, that 
tiiough the men generally, and more particularly 
the priests and the nobles, sided with Henry in this 



414 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

matter, yet all tlie ladies of England were against 
it. They justly felt that the honor and welfare of 
no woman was secure if, after twenty years of 
union, she might be thus deprived of all her rights 
as a wife ; the clamor became so loud and general, 
that the king was obliged to yield to it for a time, 
to stop the proceedings, and to banish Anna Bullen 
from the court. 

Cardinal Campeggio, called by Shakspeare Cam- 
peius, arrived in England in October, 1528. He 
at first endeavored to p(?.rsuade Katherine to avoid 
the disgrace and danger of contesting her marriage, 
by entering a religious house ; but she rejected his 
advice with strong expi-essions of disdain. "I 
am," said she, " the king's true wife, and to him 
married ; and if all doctors were dead, or law or 
learning far out of men's minds at the time of our 
marriage, yet 1 cannot think that the court of 
Rome, and the whole church of England, would 
have consented to a thing unlawful and detestable 
as you call it. Still I say I am his wife, and for 
him Avill I pray." 

About two years afterwards, Wolsey died, (in 
November, 1530 ;) — the king and queen met for 
the last time on the 14th of July, 1531. Until 
that period, some outward show of respect and 
kindness had been maintained between them ; but 
the king then ordered her to repair to a private 
residence, and no longer to consider herself as his 
lawful wife. " To which the virtuous and mourn- 
ing queen replied no more than this, that to what- 



KATHERIXE OF ARRAGON. 415 

ever place she removed, notliing could remoA^e lier 
from being the king's wife. And so they bid each 
other farewell ; and from this time the king never 
saw her more."* He married Anna Bullen in 
1532, while the decision relating to his former 
marriage was still pending. The sentence of 
divorce to which Katherine never would submit, 
was finally pronounced by Cranmer in 1533 ; and 
the unhappy queen, whose health had been grad- 
ually declining through these troubles of heart, 
died January 29, 1536, in the fiftieth year of her 
age. 

Thus the action of the play of Henry VHI. 
includes events which occurred from the impeach- 
ment of the Duke of Buckingham in 1521, to the 
death of Katherine in 1536. In making the death 
of Katherine precede the birth of Queen Elizabeth, 
Shakspeare has committed an anachronism, not 
only pardonable, but necessary. We must remem- 
ber that the construction of the play required a 
happy termination ; and that the birth of Eliza- 
beth, before or after the death of Katherine, in- 
volved the question of her legitimacy. By this 
slight deviation from the real course of events, 
Shakspeare has not perverted historic facts, but 
merely sacrificed them to a higher principle ; and 
in doing so has not only preserved dramatic pro- 
priety, and heightened the poetical interest, but 
has given a strong proof both of his delicacy and 
his judgment. 

* Hall's Chronicle. 



416 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

If we also call to mind that in this play Kath- 
erine is properly the heroine, and exhibited from 
first to last as the very " queen of earthly queens ; " 
that the Avhole interest is thrown round her and 
"VVolsey — the one the injured rival, the other the 
enemy of Anna Bullen — and that it was written 
in the reign and for the court of Elizabeth, we 
shall yet farther appreciate the moral greatness of 
the poet's mind, which disdained to sacrifice justice 
and the truth of nature to any time-serving expe- 
diency. 

Schlegel observes somewhere, that in the literal 
accuracy and apparent artlessness with which 
Shakspeare has adapted some of the events and 
characters of history to his dramatic purposes, he 
has shown equally his genius and his wisdom. 
This, like most of Schlegel's remarks, is profound 
and true ; and in this respect Katherine of Arra- 
gon may rank as the triumph of Shakspeai'e's 
genius and his wisdom. There is nothing in the 
whole range of poetical fiction in any respect re- 
sembling or approaching her ; there is nothing 
comparable, I suppose, but Katherine's own por- 
trait by Holbein, which, equally true to the life, 
is yet as far inferior as Katherine's person was in- 
ferior to her mind. Not only has Shakspeare 
given us here a delineation as faithful as it is beau- 
tiful, of a peculiar modification of character ; but he 
has bequeathed us a precious moral lesson in this 
proof that virtue alone, — (by which I mean here the 
union of truth or conscience with benevolent aifec- 



KATHERIXE OF ARRAGON. 417 

tion — the one the highest law, the other the purest 
impulse of the soul,) — that such virtue is a suffi- 
cient source of the deepest pathos and power with- 
out any mixture of foreign or external ornament : 
for who but ShakspeareKvould have brought before 
us a queen and a heroine of tragedy, stripped her 
of all pomp of place and circumstance, dispensed 
with all the usual sources of poetical interest, as 
youth, beauty, grace, fancy, commanding intellect ; 
and without any appeal to our imagination, with- 
out any violation of historical truth, or any sacri- 
fices of the other dramatic personages for the sake 
of effect, could depend on the moral principle 
alone, to touch the very springs of feeling in our 
bosoms, and melt and elevate our hearts through 
the purest and holiest impulses of our nature ! 

The character, when analyzed, is, in the first 
place, distinguished by truth. I do not only mean 
its truth to nature, or its relative truth arising from 
its historic fidelity and dramatic consistency, but 
truth as a quality of the soul; this is the basis of 
the character^ We often hear it remarked that 
those who are themselves perfectly true and art- 
less, are in this world the more easily and fre- 
quently deceived — a common-place fallacy : for we 
shall ever find that truth is as undeceived as it is 
undeceiving, and that those who are true to them- 
selves and others, may now and then be mistaken, 
or in particular instances duped by the intervention 
of some other affection or quality of the mind ; but 
they are generally free from illusion, and they are 
27 



418 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

seldom imposed upon in the long run by the shows 

of things and superfices of characters. It is by this I 
integrity of heart and clearness of understanding, ' 
this light of truth within her own soul, and not I 
through any acuteness of intellect, that Katherine I 
detects and exposes the real character of Wolsey, ! 
though unable either to unravel his designs, or de- 
feat them. 

My lord, my lord, 

I am a simple woman, much too weak 

T' oppose your cunning. 

She rather intuitively feels than knows his 
duplicity, and in the dignity of her simplicity she 
towers above his arrogance as much as she scorns 
his crooked policy. With this essential truth are j 
combined many other qualities, natural or acquired, ! 
all made out with the same uncompromising breadth 
of execution and fidelity of pencil, united with the 
utmost delicacy of feehng. For instance, the ap- 
parent contradiction arising from the contrast be- 
tween Katherine's natural disposition and the 
situation in which she is placed ; her lofty Castilian 
pride and her extreme simplicity of language and 
deportment; the inflexible resolution with which 
she asserts her right, and her soft resignation to 
unkindness and wrong; her warmth of temper'. 
breaking through the meekness oft a spirit subdued | 
by a deep sense of religion ; and a degree of \ 
austerity tinging her real benevolence ; — all these 
qualities, opposed yet harmonizing, has Shakspeare 
placed before us in a few admirable scenes. j 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 419 

Kathenne is at first introduced as pleading 
before the king in behalf of the commonalty, -who 
had been driven by the extortions of Wolsey into 
some illegal excesses. In this scene, which is true 
to history, we have her upright reasoning mind, 
her steadiness of purpose, her piety and benevo- 
lence, placed in a strong light. The unshrinking 
dignity with which she opposes without descending 
to brave the Cardinal, the stern rebuke addressed 
to the Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, are finely 
characteristic ; and by thus exhibiting Katherine 
as invested with all her conjugal rights and influ- 
ence, and royal state, the subsequent situations are 
rendered more impressive. She is placed in the 
first instance on such a height in our esteem and 
reverence, that in the midst of her abandonment 
and degradation, and the profound pity she after- 
wards inspires, the first efi*ect remains unimpaired, 
and she never falls beneath it. 

In the beginning of the second act we are pre- 
pared for the proceedings of the divorce, and our 
respect for Katherine heightened by the general 
sympathy for " the good queen," as she is expres- 
sively entitled, and by the following beautiful 
eulogium on her character uttered by the Duke of 
Norfolk :— 

He (Wolsey) counsels a divorce — a loss of her 
That like a jewel hath hnng twenty years 
About his neck, yet never lost her lustre. 
Of her that loves him with that excellence 
That angels love good men with : even of her. 



420 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, I 
"Will bless the King! I 

The scene in which Anna Bullen is introduced 
as expressing her grief and sympathy for her royal 
mistress, is exquisitely graceful. 

Here's the pang that pinches: 
His highness having liv'd so long with her, and she 
So good a lady, that no tongue could ever 
Pronounce dishonor of her, — by my life 
She never knew harm-doing. now, after 
So many courses of the sun enthron'd, 
Still growing in a majesty and pomp, — the which 
To leave is a thousand-fold more bitter, than 
'Tis sweet at first to acquire, — after this process, 
To give her the avaunt ! it is a pity 
"Would move a monster. 

OLD LADY. 

Hearts of most hard temper 
Melt and lament for her. 

ANNE. 

0, God's will ! much better 
She ne'er had known pomp: though it be temporal, 
Yet if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce 
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging 
As soul and body's severing. 

OLD LADY. 

Alas, poor lady ! 
She's a stranger now again. 

ANNE. 

So much the more 
Must pity drop upon her. "Verily, 
I swear 'tis better to be lowly born. 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 421 

And range with liumble livers in content, 
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
And wear a golden soitow. 

How completely, in the few passages appropri- 
ated to Anna Bullen, is her character portrayed ! 
with what a deHcate and yet luxuriant grace is she 
sketched off, with her gayety and her beauty, her 
levity, her extreme mobility, her sweetness of dis- 
position, her tenderness of heart, and, in short, all 
her femalities ! How nobly has Shakspeare done 
justice to the two women, and heightened our 
interest in both, by placing the praises of Katherine 
in the mouth of Anna Bullen ! and how charac- 
teristic of the latter, that she should first express 
unbounded pity for her mistress, insisting chiefly 
on her fall from her regal state and worldly pomp, 
thus betraying her own disposition : — 

For she that had all the fair parts of woman, 
Had, too, a woman's heart, which ever yet 
Affected eminence, wealth, and sovereignty. 

That she should call the loss of temporal pomp, 
once enjoyed, " a sufferance equal to soul and 
body's severing;" that she should immediately 
protest that she would not herself be a queen — 
" No, good troth ! not for all the riches under 
heaven ! " — and not long afterwards ascend without 
reluctance that throne and bed from which her 
royal mistress had been so cruelly divorced !— how 
natural ! The portrait is not less true and mas- 
terly than that of Katherine ; but the character is 



422 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

overborne by the superior moral firmness and in- 
trinsic excellence of the latter. That we may be 
more fully sensible of this contrast, the beautiful 
scene just alluded to immediately precedes Kathe- 
rine's trial at Blackfriars, and the description of 
Anna Bullen's triumphant beauty at her corona« 
tion, is placed immediately before the dying scene 
of Katherme ; yet with equal good taste and good 
feeling Shakspeare has constantly avoided all per- 
sonal collision between the two characters; nor 
does Anna BuUen ever appear as queen except in 
the pageant of the procession, which in reading the 
play is scarcely noticed. 

To return to Katherine. The whole of the trial 
scene is given nearly verbatim from the old chron- 
icles and records ; but the dryness and harshness 
of the laAv proceedings is tempered at once and 
elevated by the genius and the wisdom of the poet. 
It appears, on referring to the historical authorities, 
that when the affair was first agitated in council, 
Katherine replied to the long expositions and theo- 
logical sophistries of her opponents with resolute 
simplicity and composure : " I am a woman, and 
lack wit and learning to answer these opinions; 
but I am sure that neither the king's father nor my 
father would have condescended to our marriage, 
if it had been judged unlawful. As to your saying 
that I should put the cause to eight persons of this 
realm, for quietness of the king's conscience, I 
pray Heaven to send his Grace a quiet conscience : 
and this shall be your answer, that I say I am his 



KATHERIXE OF ARRAGON. 423 

lawful wife, and to hira lawfully married, though 
not worthy of it ; and in this point I will abide, till 
the court of Rome, which was privy to the begin- 
ning, have made a final ending of it." * 

Katherine's appearance in the court at Black- 
friars, attended by a noble troop of ladies and 
prelates of her counsel, and her refusal to answer 
the citation, are historical.f Her speech to the 
king- 
Sir, I beseech you do me right and justice, 
And to bestow your pity on me, &c. &c. 

is taken word for word (as nearly as the change 
from prose to blank verse would allow) from the 
old record in Hall. It would have been easy for 
Shakspeare to have exalted his own skill, by throw- 
ing a coloring of poetry and eloquence into this 
speech, without altering the sense or sentiment; 
but by adhering to the calm argumentative sim- 
plicity of manner and diction natural to the woman, 
he has preserved the truth of character without 
lessening the pathos of the situation. Her chal- 
lenging Wolsey as a " foe to truth," and her very 

* HaU's Chronicle, p. 781. 

t The court at Blackfriars sat on the 28th of May, 1529. " The 
queen being called, accompanied by the four bishops and others 
of her counsel, and a great company of ladies and gentlewomen 
following her; and after her obeisance, sadly and with great 
gravity, she appealed from them to the court of Rome." — See 
Hall and Cavendish's Life of Wolsey. 

The account wliich Hume gires of this scene is very elegant; 
but after the affecting naivete of the old chroniclers, it is very 
cold and unsatisfactory. 



424 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

expressions, " I utterly refuse, — yea, from my soul 
abhor you for my judge," are taken from fact. The 
sudden burst of indignant passion towards the close 
of this scene, 

In. one who ever yet 
Had stood to charity, and displayed the effects 
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 
O'ertopping woman's power; 

is taken from nature, though it occurred on a dif- 
ferent occasion.* 

Lastly, the circumstance of her being called 
back after she had appealed from the court, and 
angrily refusing to return, is from the life. Master 
Griffith, on whose arm she leaned, observed that 
she was called : " On, on," quoth she ; " it maketh 
no matter, for it is no indifferent court for me, 
therefore I will not tarry. Go on your ways." f 

King Henry's own assertion, " I dare to say, my 
lords, that for her womanhood, wisdom, nobility, 
and gentleness, never prince had such another 
wife, and therefore if I would willingly change her 
I were not wise," is thus beautifully paraphrased 
by Shakspeare: — 

I That man i' the world, who shall report he has 
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 
For speaking false in that ! Thou art, alone, 

* " The queen answered the Duke of SufiFolk very highly and 
obstinately, -vnih. many high words : and suddenly, in a fury, 
ehe departed from him into her privy chamber." — Vide HalPs 

Chronicle. 
t Vide Cavendish's Life of Wolsey. 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 425 

If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 

(Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, 

Obeying in commanding; and thy parts, 

Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,) 

The queen of earthly queens. She is noble bom, 

And, like her true nobility, she has 

Carried herself towards me. 

The annotators on Shakspeare have all observed 
the close resemblance between this fine passage — 

Sir, 
I am about to weep ; but, thinking that 
We are a qiieen, or long have dreamed so, certain 
The daughter of a king — my drops of tears 
I'll turn to sparks of fire. 

and the speech of Hermlone — 

I am not prone to weeping as our sex 
Commonly are, the want of which vain dew 
Perchance shall dry your pities : but I have 
That honorable ginef lodged here, which bums 
Worse than tears drown. 

But these verbal gentlemen do not seem to have 
felt that the resemblance is merely on the surface, 
and that the two passages could not possibly change 
places, without a manifest violation of the truth of 
character. In Hermione it is pride of sex merely : 
in Katherine it is pride of place and pride of birth. 
Hermione, though so superbly majestic, is perfectly 
independent of her regal state : Katherine, though 
so meekly pious, will neither forget hers, nor allow 
it to be forgotten by others for a moment. Her- 



426 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

mione, when deprived of that " crown and comfort 
of her life," her husband's love, regards all things 
else with despair and inditference-except her femi- 
nine honor : Katherine, divorced and abandoned, 
still with true Spanish pride stands upon respect, 
and will not bate one atom of her accustomed state 

Though unqueened, yet like a queen, 
And daughter to a kmg, inter me ! 

The passage — 

A fellow of the royal bed, that owns 

A moiety of the throne — a great king's daughter, 

here standing 

To prate and talk for life and honor 'fore 
Who please to come to hear,* 

would apply nearly to both queens, yet a single 
sentiment — nay, a single sentence — could not pos- 
sibly be transferred from one character to the 
other. The magnanimity, the noble simplicity, the 
purity of heart, the resignation in each — how per- 
fectly equal in degree ! how diametrically opposite 
in kind ! f 

* Winter's Tale, act iii. scene 2. 

t I have constantly abstained from considering any of these 
characters with a reference to the theatre ; yet I cannot help re- 
marking, that if Mrs. Siddons, who excelled equally in Ilermione 
and Katherine, and threw such majesty of demeanor, such 
power, such picturesque effect, into both, could likewise feel and 
convey the infinite contrast between the ideal grace, the classical 
repose and imaginative charm thrown round Hermioue, and the 
mattor-of-fact, artless, prosaic nature of Katherine; between the 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 427 

Once more to return to Katherine. 

We are told by Cavendish, that when Wolsey 
and Campeggio visited the queen by the king's 
order she was found at work among her women, 
and came forth tx) meet the cardinals with a skein 
of white thread hanging about her neck; that 
when Wolsey addressed her in Latin, she inter- 
rupted him, saying, " Nay, good my lord, speak to 
me in English, I beseech you ; although I under- 
stand Latin." " Forsooth then," quoth my lord, 
" madam, if it please your grace, we come both to 
know your mind, how ye be disposed to do in this 
matter between the king and you, and also to 
declare secretly our opinions and our counsel unto 
you, which we have intended of very zeal and 
obedience that we bear to your grace." " My 
lords, I thank you then," quoth she, " of your good 
wills ; but to make answer to your request I cannot, 
so suddenly, for I was set among my maidens at 
work, thinking full little of any such matter; 
wherein there needeth a longer deliberation, and 
a better head than mine to make answer to so 
noble wise men as ye be. I had need of good 
counsel in this case, which toucheth me so near ; 
and for any counsel or friendship that I can find 
in England, they are nothing to my purpose or 
profit. Think you, I pray you, my lords, will any 
Englishmen counsel, or be friendly unto me, 

poetical grandeur of the former, and the moral dignity of the 
latter, — then she certainly exceeded all that I could have imag- 
ined possible, eyen to her wonderful powers. 



428 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

against the king's pleasure, they being his subjects? 
Nay, forsooth, my lords ! and for my counsel, in 
•whom I do intend to put my trust, they be not 
here ; they be in Spain, in my native country.* 
Alas ! my lords, I am a poor woman lacking both 
•wit and understanding sufficiently to answer such 
approved wise men as ye be both, in so weighty a 
matter. I pray you to extend your good and in- 
different minds in your authority unto me, for I 
am a sunple woman, destitute and bai-ren of friend- 
ship and counsel, here in a foreign region ; and as 
for your counsel, I will not refuse, but be glad to 
hear." 

It appears, also, that when the Archbishop of 
York and Bishop Tunstall waited on her at her 
house near Huntingdon, with the sentence of the 
divorce, signed by Henry, and confirmed by act of 
.parliament, she refused to admit its validity, she 
being Henry's wife, and not his subject. The bishop 
describes her conduct in his letter : " She being 
therewith in great choler and agony, and always 
interrupting our words, declared that she would 
never leave the name of queen, but would persist 
in accounting herself the king's wife till death." 

* This affecting passage is thus rendered by Shakspeare : — 

Nay, forsooth, my friends, 
They that must weigh out my aflSictions — 
They that my trust must grow to, live not here — 
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, 
In mine own country, lords. 

Henry ym. act iii. sc. 1. 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 429 

When the official letter containing minutes of their 
conference, was shown to her, she seized a pen, and 
dashed it angrily across every sentence in which 
she was styled Princess-doivager. 

If now we turn to that inimitable scene between 
Katherine and the two cardinals, (act iii. scene 1,) 
we shall observe how finely Shakspeare has con- 
densed these incidents, and unfolded to us all the 
workings of Katherine's proud yet feminine nature. 
She is discovered at work with some of her women 
— she calls for music " to soothe her soul grown 
sad with troubles " — then follows the little song, of 
which the sentiment is so well adapted to the oc- 
casion, while its quaint yet classic elegance breathes 
the very spirit of those times, when Surrey loved 
and sung. 

SONG. 

Orpheus with his lute-made trees, 
And the mountain-tops that freeze. 

Bow themselves when he did sing 
To his music, plants and flowers 
Ever sprung, as sun and showers 

There had made a lasting spring. 

Every thing that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea. 

Hung their heads and then lay by 
In sweet music is such art, 
Killing care, and grief of heart, 

Fall asleep, on hearing, die. 

They are interrupted by the arrival of the two 



430 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

cardinals. Katlierine's perception of their subtlety 
— her suspicion of their purpose — her sense of her 
own weakness and inability to contend with them, 
and her mild subdued dignity, are beautifully rep- 
resented ; as also the guarded self-command with 
which she eludes giving a definitive answer ; but 
•when they counsel her to that which she, who 
knows Henry, feels must end in her ruin, then the 
native temper is roused at once, or, to use Tunstall's 
expression, " the choler and the agony," burst forth 
in words. 

Is this your christian counsel ? Out upon ye ! 
Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge 
That no kuig can corrupt. 

WOLSEY. 

• Your rage mistakes us. 

QUEEN KATHERINE. 

The more shame for ye ! Holy men I thought ye, 
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues; 
But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye : 
Mend them, for shame, my lords: is this your comfort, 
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady ? * 

With the same force of language, and impetuous 
yet dignified feeling, she asserts her own conjugal 
truth and merit, and insists upon her rights. 

Have I liv'd thus long, (let me speak myself. 
Since virtue finds no friends,) a wife, a true one, 
A woman, (I dare say, without vain-glory,) 
Never yet branded with suspicion ? 
Have I, with all my full affections, 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. $1^ 

Still met the king — lov'd him next heaven, obey'd him! 

Been out of fondness superstitious to him — 

Almost forgot my prayers to content him, 

And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords, &.C. 

My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, 
To give up willingly that noble title 
Your master Aved me to: nothing but death 
Shall e'er divorce my dignities. 

And this burst of unwonted passion Is immediately 
followed by the natural reaction ; it subsides into 
tears, dejection, and a mournful self-compassion. 

Would T had never trod this English ground, 

Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it. 

What will become of me now, wretched lady? 

I am the most unhappy woman living. 

Alas ! poor Avenches ! where are now your fortunes ? 

[ To her women. 
Shipwrecked upon a kingdom, where no pity. 
No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me ! 
Almost no gi-ave allowed me ! Like the lily that once 
Was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, 
I'll hang my head and perish. 

Dr. Johnson observes on this scene, that all Kathe- 
rine's distresses could not save her from a quibble 
on the word cardinal. 

Holy men I thought ye. 
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye ! 

When we read this passacje in connection with the 
situation and sentiment, the scornful play upon the 



42S)i HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

words Is not only appropriate and natural, it seems 
inevitable. Katherine, assuredly, is neither an 
imaginative nor a witty personage ; but we all ac- 
knowledge the truism, that anger inspires wit, and 
whenever there is passion there is poetry. In the 
instance just alluded to, the sarcasm springs natu- 
rally out from the bitter indignation of the moment. 
In her grand rebuke of Wolsey, in the trial scene, 
how just and beautiful is the gradual elevation of 
her language, till it rises into that magnificent 
image — 

You have by fortune and his highness' favors, 
Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted, 
Where powers are your retainers, &c. 

In the depth of her affliction, the pathos as nat- 
urally clothes itself in poetry. 

Like the lily, 
That was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, 
I'll hang my head and perish. 

But these, I believe, are the only instances of im- 
agery throughout ; for, in general, her language is 
plain and energetic. It has the strength and sim- 
plicity of her character, with very little metaphor 
and less wit. 

In approaching the last scene of Katherine's life, 
I feel as if about to tread within a sanctuary, where 
nothing befits us but silence and tears ; veneration 
so strives with compassion, tenderness with awe.* 

* Dr. Johnson is of opinion, that this scene " is above any 
other part of Shakspeare's tragedies, and perhaps above any 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 4iJo 

We must suppose a long interval to have elapsed 
since Katherine's interview with the two cardinals. 
Wolsey was disgraced, and poor Anna Bullen at 
the height of her short-lived prosperity. It was 
Wolsey's fate to be detested by both queens. In 
the pursuance of his own selfish and ambitious de- 
signs, he had treated both with perfidy ; and one 
•was the remote, the other the immediate, cause of 
his ruin.* 

The ruffian king, of whom one hates to think, 

Bcene of any other poet, tender and pathetic ; without gods, or 
furies, or poisons, or precipices ; -without the help of romantic 
circumstances; without improbable sallies of poetical lamenta- 
tion, and %vithout any throes of tumultuous misery." 

I have already obserred, that in judging of Shakspeare's char- 
acters as of persons we meet in real life, we are swayed uncon- 
sciously by our own habits and feelings, and our preference gov- 
erned, more or less, by our individual prejudices or sympathies. 
Thus, Dr. Johnson, who has not a word to bestow on Imogen, 
and who has treated poor Juliet as if she had been in truth " the 
very beadle to an amorous sigh," docs full justice to the char- 
acter of Katherine, Ijecause the logical turn of his mind, his 
vigorous intellect, and his austere integrity, enabled him to ap- 
preciate its peculiar beauties : and, accordingly, we find that he 
gives it, not only unqiialified, but almost exclusive admiration : 
he goes so far as to assert, that in this play the genius of Shak- 
epeare comes in and goes out with Katherine. 

* It will be remembered, that in early youth Anna Bullen was 
betrothed to Lord Henry Percy, who was passionately in love 
with her. Wolsey, to serve the king's purposes, broke off this 
match, and forced Percy into an unwilling marriage with Lady 
Mary Talbot. "The stout Earl of Northumberland," who ar- 
rested Wolsey at York, was this very Percy : he was chosen for 
his mission by the interference of Anna Bullen — a piece of 
■ vengeance truly feminine in its mixture of sentiment and spite- 
falness ; and everj' way characteristic of the individual woman. 
28 



ili 



HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 



was bent on forcing Katherine to concede her 
rights, and illegltimize her daughter, in favor of the 
offspring of Anna Bullen : she steadily refused, was 
declared contumacious, and the sentence of divorce 
pronounced in 1533. Such of her attendants as 
persisted in paying her the honors due to a queen 
were driven from her household ; those who con- 
sented to serve her as princess-dowager, she refused 
to admit into her presence ; so that she remained 
unattended, except by a few women, and her 
gentleman usher, Griffith. During the last eighteen 
months of her life, she resided at Kimbolton. Her 
nephew, Charles V., had offered her an asylum 
and princely treatment ; but Katherine, broken in 
heart, and declining in health, was unwilling to 
drag the spectacle of her misery and degradation 
into a strange country : she pined in her loneliness, 
deprived of her daughter, receiving no consolation 
from the pope, and no redress from the emperor. 
Wounded pride, wronged affection, and a canker- 
ing jealousy of the woman preferred to her, (which 
though it never broke out into unseemly words, is 
enumerated as one of the causes of her death,) at 
length wore out a feeble frame. " Thus," says the 
chronicle, " Queen Katherine fell into her last sick- 
ness; and though the king sent to comfort her 
through Chapuys, the emperor's ambassador, she 
grew worse and worse ; and finding death now 
coming, she caused a maid attending on her to 
write to the king to this effect ; — 



KATHERINE OF ARRAGON. 435 

" My most dear Lord, King, and Husband ; 

" The hour of my death now approaching, I can- 
not choose but, out of the love I bear you, advise 
you of your soul's health, which you ought to pre- 
fer before all considerations of the world or flesh 
whatsoever ; for which yet you have cast me into 
many calamities, and yourself into many troubles : 
but I forgive you all, and pray God to do so hke- 
wise ; for the rest, I commend unto you Mary our 
daughter, beseeching you to be a good father to 
her, as I have heretofore desired. I must intreat 
you also to respect my maids, and give them in 
marriage, which is not much, they being but three, 
and all my other servants a year's pay besides their 
due, lest otherwise they be unprovided for : lastly, 
I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above 
all things. — Farewell ! " * 

She also wrote another letter to the ambassador, 
desiring that he would remind the king of her dying 
request, and urge him to do her this last right. 

What the historian relates, Shakspeare realizes. 
On the wonderful beauty of Katherine's closing 
scene we need not dwell ; for that requires no il- 
lustration. In transferring the sentiments of her 
letter to her lips, Shakspeare has given them added 
grace, and pathos, and tenderness, without injuring 
their truth and simplicity : the feelings, and almost 

* The king is said to haye vrept on reading this letter, and her 
body being interred at Peterbro', in the monastery, for honor of 
her memory it was preserved at the dissolution, and erected into 
a bishop's see. — Herbert- i Life of Henry VHI. 



4^ 

436 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 



the manner of expression, are Katherine's own. 
The severe justice with which she draws the 
character of Wolsey is extremely characteristic! 
the benign candor with which she Hstens to the 
praise of him " whom living she most hated," is not 
less so. How beautiful her religious enthusiasm-! — 
the slumber which visits her pillow, as she hstens 
to that sad music she called her knell ; her awaken- 
ing from the vision of celestial joy to find herself 
still on earth — 

.Spirits of peace! where are ye? are ye gone, 
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ? 

how unspeakably beautiful ! And to consummate 
all in one final touch of truth and nature, we see 
that consciousness of her own worth and integrity 
which had sustained her through all her trials of 
heart, and that pride of station for which she had 
contended through long years, — which had become 
more dear by opposition, and by the perseverance 
with which she had asserted it, — remaining the last 
strong feeling upon her mind, to the very last hour 
of existence. 

When I am dead, good wench, 
Let me be used with honor: strew me over 
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 
I was a chaste wife to my grave; embalm me. 
Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like 
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 
I can no more. 



LADY MACBETH. 



4b19 



In the epilogue to this play,* it is recommended — 

To the merciful construction of good women, 
For s«c7i a one we show'd them :. 



alluding to the character of Queen Katherine. ; 
Shakspeare has, in fact, placed before us a queen I 
and a heroine, who in the first place, and above all, \ 
is a good woman ; and I repeat, that in doing so, \ 
and in trusting for all his effect to truth and virtue, 1 
he has given a sublime proof of his genius and his | 
wisdom ; — for which, among many other obligations, / 
•aptf women remain his debtors. 



LADY MACBETH. 

I DOUBT whether the epithet historical can prop- 
erly apply to the character of Lady Macbeth ; for 
though the subject of the play be taken from history, 
we never think of her with any reference to histor- ■ 
ical associations, as we do with regard to Con- 
stance, Volumnia, Katherine of Arragon, and others. 
I remember reading some critique, in which Lady 
Macbeth was styled the " Scottish queen ; " and 
methought the title, as applied to her, sounded like 
a vulgarism. It appears that the real wife of Mac- 
beth, — she who lives only in the obscure record of 

* Written, (as the commentators suppose,) not by Shakspeare, 
but by Ben .Tonson. 



-188 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

an obscure age, bore the very unmusical appella- 
tion of Graoch, and was instigated to tbe murder of 
Duncan, not only by ambition, but by motives of 
vengeance. She was the grand-daughter of Ken- 
neth the Fourth, killed in 1003, fighting against 
Malcolm the Second, the Father of Duncan. Mac- 
beth reigned over Scotland from the year 1039 to 
1056 — but what is all this to the purpose ? The 
sternly magnificent creation of the poet stands be- 
fore us independent of all these aids of fancy : she 
is Lady Macbeth ; as such she lives, she reigns, 
and is immortal in the world to imagination. What 
earthly title could add to her grandeur? what 
human record or attestation strengthen our impres- 
sion of her reality ? 

Characters in history move before us like a pro- 
cession of figures in basso relievo : we see one side 
only, that which the artist chose to exhibit to us ; 
the rest is sunk in the block : the same characters 
in Shakspeare are like the statues cut out of the 
block, fashioned, finished, tangible in every part : 
we may consider them under every aspect, we may 
examine them on every side. As the classical 
times, when the garb did not make the man, were 
peculiarly favorable to the development and delin- 
eation of the human form, and have handed down 
to us the purest models of strength and grace — so 
the times in which Shakspeare lived were favorable 
to the vigorous delineation of natural character. 
Society was not then one vast conventional mas- 
querade of manners. In his revelations, the acci- 



LADY MACBETH. 439 

dental circumstances are to the Individual character, 
what the drapery of the antique statue Is to the 
statue Itself; it Is evident, that, though adapted to 
each other, and studied relatively, they were also 
studied separately. We trace through the folds the 
fine and true proportions of the figure beneath : 
they seem and are independent of each other to 
the practised eye, though carved together from the 
same enduring substance ; at once perfectly dis- 
tinct and eternally inseparable. In history we can 
but study character in relation to events, to situa- 
tion and circumstances, which disguise and encum- 
ber it : we are left to Imagine, to Infer, what certain 
people must have been, from the manner in which 
they have acted or suffered. Shakspeare and na- 
ture bring us back to the true order of things ; and 
showing us what the human being is, enable us to 
judge of the possible as well as the positive result 
in acting and suffering. Here, instead of judging 
the individual by his actions, we are enabled to 
judge of actions by a reference to the individual. 
When we can carry this power into the experience 
of real life, we shall perhaps be more just to one 
another, and not consider ourselves aggrieved, be- 
cause we cannot gather figs from thistles and grapes 
from thorns. 

In the play or poem of Macbeth, the interest of 
the story is so engrossing, the events so rapid and 
so appalling, the accessories so sublimely conceived 
and so skilfully combined, that It is difficult to de- 
tach Lady Macbeth from- the dramatic situation, or 



440 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

consider her apart from the terrible associations of 
our first and earliest impressions. As the vulgar 
idea of a Juliet — that all-beautiful and heaven- 
gifted child of the south — is merely a love-sick girl 
in white satin, so the common-place idea of Lady 
Macbeth, though endowed with the rarest powers, 
the loftiest energies, and the profoundest afiections, 
is nothing "but a fierce, cruel woman, brandishing a 
couple of daggers, and inciting her husband to 
butcher a poor old king. 

Even those who reflect more deeply are apt to 
consider rather the mode in which a certain char- 
acter is manifested, than the combination of abstract 
qualities making up that individual human being ; 
so what should be last, is first ; effects are mistaken 
for causes, qualities are confounded with their re- 
sults, and the perversion of what is essentially 
good, with the operation of positive evil. Hence 
it is, that those who can feel and estimate the mag- 
nificent conception and poetical development of the 
character, have overlooked the grand moral lesson 
it conveys ; they forget that the crime of Lady 
Macbeth terrifies us in proportion as we sympathize 
with her ; and that this sympathy is in proportion 
to the degree of pride, passion, and intellect, we 
may ourselves possess. It is good to behold and to 
tremble at the possible result of the noblest facul- 
ties uncontrolled or perverted. True it is, that the 
ambitious women of these civilized times do not 
murder sleeping kings: but are there, therefore, no 
Lady Macbeths in the world ? no women who, un- 



LADY MACBETH. 44t 

der the influence of a diseased or excited appetite 
for power or distinction, would sacrifice the happi- 
ness of a daughter, the fortunes of a husband, the 
principles of a son, and peril their own souls ? 
***** 

The character of Macbeth is considered as one 
of the most complex in the whole range of Shak- 
speare's dramatic creations. He is represented in 
the course of the action under such a variety of 
aspects; the good and evil qualities of his mind are 
so poised and blended, and instead of being gradu- 
ally and successively developed, evolve themselves 
so like shifting lights and shadows playing over the 
" unstable waters," that his character has afforded 
a continual and interesting subject of analysis and 
contemplation. None of Shakspeare's personages 
have been treated of more at large ; none have 
been more minutely criticized and profoundly ex- 
amined. A single feature in his character — the 
question, for instance, as to whether his courage be 
personal or constitutional, or excited by mere des- 
peration — has been canvassed, asserted, and refuted, 
in two masterly essays. 

On the other hand, the character of Lady Mac- 
beth resolves itself into few and simple elements. 
The grand features of her character are so distinctly 
and prominently marked, that, though acknowl- 
edged to be one of the poet's most sublime crea- 
tions, she has been passed over with comparatively 
few words : generally speaking, the commentators 
Beem to have considered Lady Macbeth rather with 



442 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

reference to her husband, and as influencing the 
action of the drama, than as an individual concep- 
tion of amazing power, poetry, and beauty : or if 
they do individualize her, it is ever with those asso- 
ciations of scenic representation which Mrs. Sid- 
dons has identified with the character. Those who 
have been accustomed to see it arrayed in the form 
and lineaments of that magnificent woman, and 
developed with her wonder-working powers, seem 
satisfied to leave it there, as if nothing more could 
be said or added.* 

But the generation which beheld Mrs. Siddons in 
her glory is passing away, and we are again left to 
our own unassisted feelings, or to all the satisfaction 
to be derived from the sagacity of critics and the 
reflections of commentators. Let us turn to them 
for a moment. 

Dr. Johnson, who seems to have regarded her as 
nothing better than a kind of ogress, tells us, in so 
many words, that " Lady Macbeth is merely de- 
tested." Schlegel dismisses her in haste, as a spe- 
cies of female fury. In the two essays on Macbeth 
already mentioned, she is passed over with one or 

* Mrs. Siddons left among her papers an analysis of the char- 
acter of Lady Macbeth, which I haye never seen : but I haye 
heard her say, that after playing the part for thirty years, she 
never read it without discovering in it something new. She had 
an idea that Lady Macbeth must fi-om her Celtic origin have been 
a small, fair, blue-eyed woman. Bonduca, Fredegonde, Brune- 
hault, and other Amazons of the gothic ages were of this com- 
plexion ; yet I cannot help fancying Lady Macbeth dark, like 
Black Agnes of Douglas— a sort of Lady Macbeth in her way. 



LADY MACBETH. 443 

two slight allusions. The only justice that has yet 
been done to her is by Ilazlitt, in the " Characters 
of Shakspeare's Plays." Nothing can be finer than 
his remarks as far as they go, but his plan did not 
allow him sufficient space to work out his own con- 
ception of the character, with the minuteness it 
requires. All that he says is just in sentiment, and 
most eloquent in the expression ; but in leaving 
some of the finest points altogether untouched, he 
has also left us in doubt whether he even felt or 
perceived them ; and this masterly criticism stops 
short of the icJiole truth — it is a little superficial, 
and a little too harsh. 

In the mind of Lady Macbeth, ambition is rep- 
resented as the ruling motive, an intense over- 
mastering passion, which is gratified at the expense 
of every just and generous principle, and every 
feminine feeling. In the pursuit of her object, she 
is cruel, treacherous, and daring. She is doubly, 
trebly dyed in guilt and blood ; for the murder she 
instigates is rendered more frightful by disloyalty 
and ingratitude, and by the violation of all the 
most sacred claims of kindred and hospitality. 
When her husband's more kindly nature shrinks 
from the perpetration of the deed of horror, she, 
like an evil genius, whispers him on to his damna- 
tion. The full measure of her wickedness is never 
disguised, the magnitude and atrocity of her crime 
is never extenuated, forgotten, or forgiven, in the 
•whole course of the play. Our judgment is not 
bewildered, nor our moral feeling insulted, by the 



444 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

sentimental jumble of great crimes and dazzling 
virtues, after the fashion of the German school, 
and of some admirable writers of our own time. 
Lady Macbeth's amazing power of Intellect, her 
inexorable determination of purpose, her super- 
human strength of nerve, render her as fearful in 
herself as her deeds are hateful ; yet she is not a 
mere monster of depravity, with whom we have 
nothing in common, nor a meteor whose destroying 
path we watch in ignorant affright and amaze. She 
is a terrible impersonation of evil passions and 
mighty powers, never so far removed from our own 
nature as to be cast beyond the pale of our sympa- 
thies ; for the woman herself remains a woman to 
the last — still linked with her sex and with hu- 
manity. 

This impression is produced partly by the essen- 
tial truth in the conception of the character, and 
partly by the manner in which it is evolved ; by a 
combination of minute and delicate touches, in 
some instances by speech, in others by silence : at 
one time by what is revealed, at another by what 
we are left to infer. As in real life, we perceive 
distinctions in character we cannot always explain, 
and receive impressions for which we cannot always 
account, without going back to the beginning of an 
acquaintance, and recalling many and trifling cir- 
cumstances — looks, and tones, and words : thus, to 
explain that hold which Lady Macbeth, in the midst 
of all her atrocities, still keeps upon our feelings, it 
is necessary to trace minutely the action of the 



LADY MACBETH. 445 

play, as far as slie is concerned in it, from its very 
commencement to its close. 

We must bear in mind, that the first idea of mur- 
dering Duncan is not suggested by Lady Macbeth 
to her husband : it springs within his mind, and is 
revealed to us, before his first interview with his 
wife, — before she is introduced or even alluded to. 

MACBETH. 

This supernatural soliciting 
Cannot be ill ; cannot be good. If ill, 
Why hath it given me earnest of success. 
Commencing in a tinith? I am thane of Cawdor — 
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion, 
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
Against the use of natm-e ? 

It will be said, that the same " horrid sugges- 
tion " presents itself spontaneously to her, on the 
reception of his letter ; or rather, that the letter 
itself acts upon her mind as the prophecy of the 
Weird Sisters on the mind of her husband, kind- 
ling the latent passion for empire into a quench- 
less flame. We are prepared to see the train of 
evil, first lighted by hellish agency, extend itself to 
Jier through the medium of her husband ; but we 
are spared the more revolting idea that it originated 
with her. The guilt is thus more equally divided 
than we should suppose, when we hear people pity- 
ing " the noble nature of Macbeth," bewildered 
and goaded on to crime, solely or chiefly by the in- 
Btigation of his wife. 



446 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

It is true that she afterwards appears the more 
active agent of the two ; but it is less through her 
preeminence in wickedness than through her supe- 
riority of intellect. The eloquence — the fierce, 
fervid eloquence with which she bears down the 
relenting and reluctant spirit of her husband, the 
dexterous sophistry with which she wards off his 
objections, her artful and affected doubts of his 
courage — the sarcastic manner in which she lets 
fall tlie word coward — a word which no man can 
endure from another, still less from a woman, and 
least of all from a woman he loves — and the bold 
address with which she removes all obstacles, si- 
lences all arguments, overpowers all scruples, and 
marshals the way before him, absolutely make us 
shrink before the commanding intellect of the 
woman, with a terror in which interest and admi- 
ration are strangely mingled. 

LADY MACBETH. 

He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? 

MACBETH. 

Hath he ask'd for me? 

LADY MACBETH. 

Know you not, he has ? 

MACBETH. 

We will proceed no further in this business : 
He hath honored me of late, and I have bought 
Golden opinions from all sorts of people. 
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
Not cast aside so soon. 



LADY MACBETH. 447 

LADY MACBETH. 

Was the hope drunk, 
Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since, 
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
At what it did so freely ? From this time, 
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valor, 
As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that 
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, 
And live a coward in thine own esteem ; 
Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 
Like the poor cat i' the adage ? 



MACBETH. 

Pr'ythee, peace: 
I dare do all that may become a man ; 
Who dares do more, is none. 



LADY MACBETH. 

What beast was it then, 
That made you break this enterprise to me ? 
When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
And, to be more than what you were, you would 
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place, 
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both; 
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know 
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : 
I would, while it were smiling in my face. 
Have pluck' d my nipple from his boneless gums. 
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn, as you 
Have done to this. 



MACBETH. 

If we should fail. 



448 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

LADY MACBETH. 

We fail.* 
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
And we'll not fall. 

Again, in the murdering scene, the obdurate in- 
flexibility of purpose with which she drives on 
Macbeth to the execution of their project, and her 
masculine indifference to blood and death, would 
inspire unmitigated disgust and horror, but for the 
involuntary consciousness that it is produced rather 
by the exertion of a strong power over herself, 
than by absolute depravity of disposition and feroc- 
ity of temper. This impression of her character 
is brought home at once to our very hearts with 
the most profound knowledge of the springs of 
nature within us, the most subtle mastery over their 
various operations, and a feeling of dramatic effect 
not less wonderful. The very passages in which 
Lady Macbeth displays the most savage and re- 
lentless determination, are so worded as to fill the 
mind with the idea of sex, and place the woman 

* In her impersonation of the part of Lady Macbeth, Mrs. 
Siddons adopted successively three different intonations in giving 
the words we fail. At first a quick contemptuous interrogation 
— " we fail? " Afterwards with the note of admiration — we fail! 
and an accent of indignant astonishment, laying the principal 
emphasis on the word loe — we fail I Lastly, she fixed on what I 
am convinced is the true reading — we fail, with the simple period, 
modulating her voice to a deep, low, resolute tone, which settled 
the issue at once — as though she had said, " if wo fiiil, why then 
we fail, and all is over.'' This is consistent with the dark fatalism 
of the character and the sense of the line following, and the 
effect was sublime, almost awful. 



LADY MACBETH. 449 

before ns in all her dearest attributes, at once soften- 
ing and refining the horror, and rendering it more 
intense- Thus, when she reproaches her husband 
for his weakness — 

From this time, 
Such I account thy love ! 

Again, 

Come to my woman's breasts, 
And take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers, 
That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell pui-pose, &c. 

I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis 
To love the babe that milks me, &c. 

And lastly, in the moment of extremest horror 
comes that unexpected touch of feeling, so startling, 
yet so wonderfully true to nature — 

Had he not resembled my father as he slept, 
I had done it ! 

Thus in one of Weber's or Beethoven's grand 
symphonies, some unexpected soft minor chord or 
passage will steal on the ear, heard amid the magni- 
ficent crash of harmony, making the blood pause, 
and filling the eye with unbidden tears. 

It is particularly observable, that in Lady Mac- 
beth's concentrated, strong-nerved ambition, the 
ruling passion of her mind, there is yet a touch of 
■womanhood : she is ambitious less for herself than 



450 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

we have no reason to draw any other inference 
either from her words or actions. In her famous 
soliloquy, after reading her husband's letter, she 
does not once refer to herself. It is of him she 
thinks: she wishes to see her husband on the 
throne, and to place the sceptre within Jiis grasp. 
The strength of her affections adds strength to her 
ambition. Although in the old story of Boethius 
we are told that the wife of Macbeth " burned with 
unquenchable desire to bear the name of queen," 
yet in the aspect under which Shakspeare has rep- 
resented the character to us, the selfish part of 
this ambition is kept out of sight. We must re- 
mark also, that in Lady Macbeth's reflections on 
her husband's character, and on that mllkiness 
of nature, which she fears " may impede him from 
the golden round," there is no indication of female 
scorn : there is exceeding pride, but no egotism in 
the sentiment or the expression ; — no want of 
wifely and womanly respect and love for Jiiin, but 
on the contrary, a sort of unconsciousness of her 
own mental superiority, which she betrays rather 
than asserts, as interesting in itself as it is most ad- 
mirably conceived and delineated. 

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be 

What thou art promised : — Yet do I fear thy nature ; 

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 

To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be gi-eat; 

Art not without ambition; but without 

The illness should attend it. What thou would'st highly, 

That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false, 



LADY MACBETH. 461 

And yet woiild'st wrongly win: thou'dst have, great 

Glamis, 
That whicli ci'ies, TJuis thou must do^ if thou have it; 
And that which rather thou dost fear' to do, 
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, 
Tliat I may pour my spirits in thine ear; 
And chastise Avith the valor of my tongue 
All that impedes thee from the golden round. 
Which fate and metaphysical* aid doth seem 
To have thee crowned withal. 

Nor is there any thinfj vulgar in her ambition : 
as the strength of her affections lends to it some- 
thing profound and concentrated, so her splendid 
imagination invests the object of her desire with its 
own radiance. We cannot trace in her grand and 
capacious mind that it is the mere baubles and trap- 
pings of royalty which dazzle and allure her : hers 
is the sin of the " star-bright apostate," and she 
plunges with her husband into the abyss of guilt, 
to procure for " all their days and nights sole sov- 
ereign sway and masterdom." She revels, she luxu- 
riates in her dream of power. She reaches at the 
golden diadem, which is to sear her brain ; she 
perils life and soul for its attainment, with an en- 
thusiasm as perfect, a faith as settled, as that of the 
mart)T, who sees at the stake, heaven and its 
crowns of glory opening upon him. 

Great Glamis ! woi'thy Cawdor ! 
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter 1 

* Metaphysical is here used in the sense of spiritual or preter- 
natural. 



452 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

Thy letters have transported me beyond 
This ignorant present, and I feel now 
The future in the instant \ 

This is surely the very rapture of ambition ! and 
those who have heard Mrs. Siddons pronounce the 
word hereafter, cannot forget the look, the tone, 
which seemed to give her auditors a glimpse of that 
awful futurej which she, in her prophetic fury, be- 
holds upon the instant. 

But to return to the text before us : Lady Mac- 
beth having proposed the object to herself, and 
arrayed it with an ideal glory, fixes her eye stead- 
ily upon it, soars far above all womanish feelings 
and scruples to attain it, and stoops upon her victim 
with the strength and velocity of a vulture ; but 
having committed unflinchingly the crime neces- 
sary for the attainment of her purpose, she stops 
there. After the murder of Duncan, we see Lady 
Macbeth, during the rest of the play, occupied in 
supporting the nervous weakness and sustaining 
the fortitude of her husband ; for instance, Macbeth 
is at one time on the verge of frenzy, between fear 
and horror, and it is clear that if she loses her self- 
command, both must perish : — 

MACBETH. 

One cried, Ood bless us! and, Amm ! the other; 
As they had seen me, Avith these hangman's hands. 
Listening their fear, I could not say. Amen! 
When they did say, God bless us ! 

LADY MACBETH. 

Consider it not so deeply ! 



LADY MACBETH. 453 

MACBETH. 
But wherefore could not I pronounce, amen? 
I had most need of blessmg, and amen 
Stuck m my throat. 

LADY MACBETH. 

These deeds must not be thought 
After these ways : so, it will make us mad. 

MA.CBETH. 

Methought I heard a voice cry, 
" Sleep no more," &c. &c. 

LADY MACBETH. 

What do you mean ? who was it that thus cried ? 

Why, worthy Thane, 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things. — Go, get some water, &c. &c. 

Afterwards, in act iii., she is represented as mutter- 
ing to herself, 

Nought's had, all's spent, 
When our desire is got without content; 

yet immediately addresses her moody and con- 
science-stricken husband — 

How now, my lord? why do you keep alone, 
Of sorriest fancies your companions making? 
Using those thoughts, which should indeed have died 
With them they think on? Things without remedy, 
Should be without regard; what's done, is done. 

But she is nowhere represented as urging him on 
to new crimes ; so far from it, that when Macbeth 



454 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

darkly hints his purposed assassination of Banquo, 
and she inquires his meaning, he replies, 

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 
Till thou approve the deed. 

The same may be said of the destruction of Mac- 
duff's family. Every one must perceive how our 
detestation of the woman had been increased, if 
she had been placed before us as suggesting and 
abetting those additional cruelties into which Mac- 
beth is hurried by his mental cowardice. 

If my feeling of Lady Macbeth's character be 
just to the conception of the poet, then she is one 
who could steel herself to the commission of a 
crime from necessity and expediency, and be dar- 
ingly wicked for a great end, but not likely to per- 
petrate gratuitous murders from any vague or 
selfish fears. I do not mean to say that the perfect 
confidence existing between herself and Macbeth 
could possibly leave her in ignorance of his actions 
or designs : that heart-broken and shuddering allu- 
sion to the murder of Lady MacdulF (in the sleep- 
ing scene) proves the contrary : — 

The thane of Fife had a wife ; where is she now ? 

But she is nowhere brought before us in immediate 
connection with these horrors, and we are spared 
any flagrant proof of her participation in them. 
This may not strike us at first, but most undoubt- 
edly has an effect on the general bearing of the 
character, considered as a whole. 



LADY MACBETH. 455 

Anotlier more obvious and pervading source of 
interest arises from that bond of entire affection 
and confidence which, through the whole of this 
dreadful tissue of crime and its consequences, unites 
Macbeth and his wife ; claiming from us an invol- 
untary respect and sympathy, and shedding a soft- 
ening influence over the whole tragedy. Macbeth 
leans upon her strength, trusts in her fidelity, and 
throws himself on her tenderness. 

full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife ! 

She sustains him, calms him, soothes him — 

Come on; 
Gentle my lord, sleek o'er yom* rugged looks; 
Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. 

The endearing epithets, the terms of fondness in 
which he addresses her, and the tone of respect she 
invariably maintains towards him, even when most 
exasperated by his vacillation of mind and his 
brain-sick terrors, have, by the very force of con- 
ti-ast, a powerful effect on the fancy. 

By these tender redeeming touches we are im- 
pressed with a feeling that Lady Macbeth's influ- 
ence over the affections of her husband, as a wife 
and a woman, is at least equal to her power over 
him as a superior mind. Another thing has always 
struck me. During the supper scene, in which 
Macbeth is haunted by the spectre of the murdered 
Banquo, and his reason appears unsettled by the 
exti-emity of his horror and dismay, her indignant 



456 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

rebuke, her low whispered remonstrance, the sar- 
castic emphasis with which she combats his sick 
fancies, and endeavors to recall him to himself, 
have an intenseness, a severity, a bitterness, which 
makes the blood creep. 

LADY MACBKTH. 

Ai*e you a man? 

MACBETH. 

Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that 
Which might appall the devil. 

LADY MACBETH. 

proper stuff! 
This is the veiy painting of your fear: 
This is the air-drawn dagger, wliich, you said, 
Led you to Duncan. 0, these flaws and starts 
(Impostors to true fear) would Avell become 
A woman's story, at a winter's fire, 
Authoriz'd by her grandam ! Shame itself! 
Why do you make such faces ? When all's done 
You look but on a stool. 

What! quite unmann'd in folly? 

Yet when the guests are dismissed, and they are 
left alone, she says no more, and not a syllable of 
reproach or scorn escapes her : a few words in sub- 
missive reply to his questions, and an entreaty to 
seek repose, are all she permits herself to utter. 
There is a touch of pathos and of tenderness in this 
silence which has always affected me beyond ex- 
pression : it is one of the most masterly and most 
beautiful traits of character in the whole play. 



LADY MACBETH. 457 

Lastly, it is clear tliat in a mind constituted like 
that of Lady Macbeth, and not utterly depraved 
and hardened by the habit of crime, conscience 
ni'ist wake some time or other, and bring with it 
remorse closed by despair, and despair by death. 
This great moral retribution was to be displayed to 
us — but how ? Lady Macbeth is not a woman to 
start at shadows ; she mocks at air-drawn daggers ; 
she sees no imagined spectres rise from the tomb to 
appall or accuse her.* The towering bravery of 
her mind disdains the visionary terrors which haunt 
her weaker husband. We know, or rather we feel, 
that she who could give a voice to the most direful 
intent, and call on the spirits that wait on mortal 
thoughts to " unsex her," and " stop up all access 
and passage of remorse" — to that remorse would 
have given nor tongue nor sound ; and that rather 
than have uttered a complaint, she would have held 
her breath and died. To have given her a confi- 
dant, though in the partner of her guilt, would 
have been a degrading resource, and have disap- 
pointed and enfeebled all our previous impressions 
of her character ; yet justice is to be done, and we 
are to be made acquainted with that which the 
woman herself would have suffered a thousand 
deaths of torture rather than have betrayed. In 

* Mrs. Siddons, I believe, had an idea that Lady Macbeth be- 
held the spectre of Banquo in the supper scene, and that her 
self-control and presence of mind enabled her to surmount her 
consciousness of the ghastly presence. This ^vould be superhu- 
man, and I do not see that either the character or the text bear 
out this supposition. 



458 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

tho sleeping scene we have a glimpse into the 
depths of that inward hell : the seared brain and 
broken heart are laid bare before us in the help- 
lessness of slumber. By a judgment the most sub- 
lime ever imagined, yet the most unforced, natural, 
and inevitable, the sleep of her who murdered 
sleep is no longer repose, but a condensation of 
resistless horrors which the prostrate intellect and 
powerless will can neither baffle nor repel. We 
shudder and are satisfied ; yet our human sympa- 
thies are again touched : we rather sigh over the 
ruin than exult in it ; and after watching her 
through this wonderful scene with a sort of fascina- 
tion, we dismiss the unconscious, helpless, despair- 
stricken murderess, with a feeling which Lady 
Macbeth, in her waking strength, with all her 
awe-commanding powers about her, could never 
have excited. 

It is here especially we perceive that sweetness 
of nature which in Shakspeare went hand in hand 
with his astonishing powers. He never confounds 
that line of demarcation which eternally separates 
good from evil, yet he never places evil before us 
without exciting in some way a consciousness of 
the opposite good which shall balance and relieve 
it. 

I do deny that he has represented in Lady Mac- 
beth a woman " naturally cruel" * " invariably 
savage" f or endued with " pure demoniac firm- 
ness" X If ever there could have existed a woman 

* Cumberland, t Professor Richardson. % Foster's Essays. 



LADY MACBETH. 459 

to "vvliom such plirases could apply — a woman with- 
out touch of modesty, pity or fear, — Shakspeare 
knew that a thing so monstrous was unfit for all 
the purposes.of poetry. If Lady Macbeth had been 
naluraUi/ cruel, she needed not so solemnly to have 
abjured all pity, and called on the spirits that wait 
on mortal thoughts to unsex her ; nor would she 
have been loved to excess by a man of Macbeth's 
character ; for it is the sense of intellectual energy 
and strength of will overpowering her feminine 
nature, which draws from him that burst of intense 
admiration — 

Brhig foi'th men children only, 

For thy undaunted metal should compose 

Nothing but males. 

If she had been invariaUy savage, her love would 
not have comforted and sustained her husband in 
his despair, nor would her uphfted dagger have 
been arrested by a dear and venerable image ris- 
ing between her soul and its fell purpose. If en- 
dued with pure demoniac firmness^ her woman's 
nature would not, by the reaction, have been so 
horribly avenged, she would not have died of 
remorse and despair. 

***** 

We cannot but observe that through the whole 
of the dialogue appropriated to Lady Macbeth, there 
is something very peculiar and characteristic in the 
turn of expression: her compliments, when she is 
playing the hostess or the queen, are elaborately 
elegant and verbose : but, when in earnest, she 



460 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

speaks in short energetic sentences — sometimes 
abrupt, but always full of meaning ; her thoughts 
are rapid and clear, her expressions forcible, and 
the imagery like sudden flashes of lightning : all 
the foregoing extracts exhibit this, but I will 
venture one more, as an immediate illustration. 

MACBETH. 

My dearest love, 
Duncan comes here to-night. 

LADY MACBETH. 

Aud when goes hence ? 

MACBETH. 

To-morrow, — as he purposes. 

LADY MACBETH. 

never 
Shall sun that moiTow see ! 
Thy face, my thane, is as a book, -where men 
May read strange matters ; — to beguile the time, 
Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, 
Your tongue, your hand ; look like the innocent flower, 
But be the serpent under it. 

What would not the firmness, the self-command, 
the enthusiasm, the intellect, the ardent affections 
of this woman have performed, if properly directed ? 
but the object being unworthy of the effort, the 
end is disappointment, despair, and death. 

The power of religion could alone have con- 
trolled such a mind ; but it is the misery of a very 
proud, strong, and gifted spirit, without sense of 
religion, that instead of looking upward to find a 



LADY MACBETH. 461 

superior, looks round and sees all things as subject 
to itself. Lady Macbeth is placed in a dark, igno- 
rant, iron age ; her powerful intellect is slightly 
tinged with its credulity and superstition, but she 
has no religious feeling to restrain the force of 
will. She is a stern fatalist in principle and action 
— " what is done, is done," and would be done over 
again under the same circumstances; her remorse 
is without repentance, or any reference to an of- 
fended Deity ; it arises from the pang of a wounded 
conscience, the recoil of the violated feelings of 
nature : it is the horror of the past, not the terror 
of the future ; the torture of self-condemnation, 
not the fear of judgment ; it is strong as her soul, 
deep as her guilt, fatal as her resolve, and terrible 
as her crime. 

If it should be objected to this view of Lady 
Macbeth's character, that it engages our sympathies 
in behalf of a perverted being — and that to leave 
her so strong a power upon our feelings in the midst 
of such supreme wickedness, involves a moral 
wrong, I can only reply in the words of Dr. Chan- 
ning, that " in this and the hke cases our interest 
fostens on what is not evil in the character — that 
there is something kindling and ennobling in the 
consciousness, however awakened, of the energy 
which resides in mind ; and many a virtuous man 
has borrowed new strength from the force, con- 
stancy, and dauntless courage of evil agents." * 

* Sec Dr. Channing's remarlcs on Satan, in his essay " On the 
Chai-a«ter and Writings of Milton."- Works, p. 131. 



462 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

This is true ; and might lie not have added, that 
many a powerful and gifted spirit has learnt humil- 
ity and self-government, from beholding how far 
the energy which resides in mind may be degraded 
and perverted ? 

***** 

In general, when a woman is introduced into a 
tragedy to be the presiding genius of evil in herself, 
or the cause of evil to others, she is either too 
feebly or too darkly portrayed ; either crime is 
heaped on crime, and horror on horror, till our 
sympathy is lost in incredulity, or the stimulus is 
sought in unnatural or impossible situations, or in 
situations that ought to be . impossible, (as in the 
Myrrha or the Cenci,) or the character is enfeebled 
by a mixture of degrading propensities and sexual 
weakness, as in Vittoria Corombona. But Lady 
Macbeth, though so supremely wicked, and so con- 
sistently feminine, is still kept aloof from all base 
alloy. When Shakspeare created a female char- 
acter purely detestable, he made her an accessary, 
never a principal. Thus Regan and Goneril are 
two powerful sketches of selfishness, cruelty, and 
ingratitude ; we abhor them whenever we see or 
think of them, but we think very little about them, 
except as necessary to the action of the drama. 
They are to cause the madness of Lear, and to call 
forth the filial devotion of Cordelia, and their de- 
pravity is forgotten in its effects. A comparison 
has been made between Lady Macbeth and the 
Greek Clytemnestra in the Agamemnon of Eschy- 



LADY MACBETH. 463 

lus. The Clytemnestra of Sophocles is something 
more in Shakspeare's spirit, for she is something 
less impudently atrocious ; but, considered as a 
woman and an individual, would any one compare 
this shameless adulteress, cruel murderess, and 
unnatural mother, with Lady Macbeth ? Lady 
Macbeth herself would certainly shrink from the 
approximation.* 

The Electra of Sophocles comes nearer to Lady 
Macbeth as a poetical conception, with this strong 
distinction, that she commands more respect and 
esteem, and less sympathy. The murder in which 
she participates is ordained by the oracle — is an 
act of justice, and therefore less a murder than 
a sacrifice. Electra is drawn with magnificent 
simplicity and intensity of feeling and purpose, 
but there is a want of light, and shade, and relief. 
Thus the scene in which Orestes stabs his mother 
within her chamber, and she is heard pleading for 

* The vision of Clytemnestra the night before she is murdered, 
in which she dreams that she has given birth to a dragon, and 
that, in la3'ing it to her bosom, it draws blood instead of milk, 
has been greatly admired ; but I suppose that those who most 
admire it would not place it in comparison with Lady Macbeth's 
sleeping scene. Lady Ashton, in the Bride of Lammermoor, is 
a domestic Lady Macbeth; but the development being in the 
narrative, not the dramatic form, it follows hence that we have 
a masterly portrait, not a complete individual : and the relief of 
poetry and sympathy being wanting, the detestation she inspires 
is so unmixed as to be ahnost intolerable: consequently the 
character, cousidei-ed in relation to the other personages of the 
story, is perfect ; but abstractedly, it is imperfect ; a basso relievo 
— not a statue. 



464 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

mercy;, while Electra stands forward listening ex- 
ultingly to her mother's cries, and urging her 
brother to strike again, " another blow ! another ! '* 
&c. is terribly fine, but the horror is too shocking, too 
physical — if I may use such an expression : it will 
not surely bear a comparison with the murdering 
scene in Macbeth, where the exhibition of various 
passions — the irresolution of Macbeth, the bold de- 
termination of his wife, the deep suspense, the rage 
of the elements without, the horrid stillness within, 
and the secret feeling of that infernal agency which 
is ever present to the fancy, even when not visible 
on the scene — throw a rich coloring of poetry over 
the whole, which does not take from " the present 
horror of the time," and yet relieves it. Shak- 
peare's blackest shadows are like those of Rem- 
brandt ; so intense, that the gloom which brooded 
over Egypt in her day of wrath was pale in com- 
parison — yet so transparent that we seem to see 
the light of heaven through their depth. 

In the whole compass of dramatic poetry, there 
is but one female character which can be placed 
near that of Lady Macbeth ; the Medea. Not 
the vulgar, voluble fury of the Latin tragedy,* 
nor the Medea in a hoop petticoat of Corneille, 
but the genuine Greek Medea — the Medea of 
Euripides, f 

* Attributed to Seneca. 

+ A comparisou has already been made in an article in the 
" llcflector." It will be seen on a reference to that very masterly 
Essay, that I differ from the author in his conception of Lady 
Maebeth's character. 



LADY MACBETH. 465 

There is something in the Medea which seizes 
irresistibly oil the imagination. Her passionate 
devotion to Jason, for whom she had left her parents 
and country — to whom she had given all, and 

Would have drawn the spirit from her breast 
Had he but asked it, sighiiig forth her soul 
Into his bosom ; * 

the wrongs and insults which drive her to despera- 
tion — the horrid refinement of cruelty with which 
she plans and executes her revenge upon her 
faithless husband — the gush of fondness with which 
she weeps over her children, whom in the next 
moment she devotes to destruction in a paroxysm 
of insane fury, carry the terror and pathos of tragic 
situation to their extreme height. But if we may 
be allowed to judge through the medium of a trans- 
lation, there is a certain hardness in the manner of 
treating the character, which in some degree de- 
feats the effect. Medea talks too much : her human 
feelings and superhuman power are not sufficiently 
blended. Taking into consideration the different 
impulses which actuate Medea and Lady Macbeth, 
as love, jealousy, and revenge on the one side, and 
ambition on the other, we expect to find more of 
female nature in the first than in the last : and yet 
the contrary is the fact : at least, my own impression 
as far as a woman may judge of a woman, is, that 
although the passions of Medea are more feminine, 

* AppoUouius Ilhodius.— Ft</(? Eltou's Specimens of the Classic 
Poets. 

3U 



466 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS. 

the character is less so ; we seem to require more 
feeling in her fierceness, more passion in her 
frenzy ; something less of poetical abstraction, — 
less art, fewer words : her delirious vengeance we 
might forgive, but her calmness and subtlety are 
rather revolting. 

These two admirable characters, placed in 
contrast to each other, afford a fine illustration of 
Schlcgel's distinction between the ancient or Greek 
drama, which he compares to sculpture, and the 
modern or romantic drama, which he compares to 
painting. The gothic grandeur, the rich chiaro- 
scuro, and deep-toned colors of Lady Macbeth, 
stand thus opposed to the classical elegance and 
mythological splendor, the delicate yet inflexible 
outline of the Medea. If I might be permitted to 
carry this illustration still further, I would add, that 
there exists the same distinction between the Lady 
Macbeth and the Medea, as between the Medusa 
of Leonardo da Vinci and the Medusa of the Greek 
gems and bas reliefs. In the painting, the horror 
of the subject is at once exalted and softened by 
the most vivid coloring, and the most magical con- 
trast of light and shade. We gaze — until, from the 
murky depths of the background, the serpent hair 
seems to stir and glitter as if instinct with life, and 
the head itself, in all its gliastliness and brightness, 
appears to rise from the canvass with the glare 
of reality. In the Medusa of sculpture, how dif- 
ferent is the effect on the imagination I We have 
here the snakes convolving; round the winged and 



LADY MACBETH. 467 

graceful head: the brows contracted with horror 
and pain ; but every feature is chiselled into the 
most regular and faultless perfection ; and amid the 
gorgon terrors, there rests a marbly, fixed, super- 
natural grace, which, without reminding us for a 
moment of common life or nature, stands before us 
a presence, a power, and an enchantment ! 



THE END. 



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